


Heartbreakers

by karakael



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Heartbreakers AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9778799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karakael/pseuds/karakael
Summary: Marianne Summers had sworn off love forever, following a disastrous relationship. Now she has made it her mission - and her job - to ruin the relationships of couples who are miserable in love. But when Griselda King hiresThe Pixie Heartbreakersto ruin her son's wedding, there's one problem; Bog seems genuinely in love!





	1. Chapter 1

“The rules are simple.”

Marianne explained, placing pictures upon the table with perfect precision.

\-------------

She was wearing a tight black dress and red heels. It was pouring rain and she hugged chilled arms against herself as she waited for a taxi. Her once perfect makeup bled from round her eyes and every careful coif of her hair had fallen across her face.

A man approached her, stepping into the light of the restaurant just before a taxi swerved and doused her with water, ignoring her trembling outstretched hand.

“Fuck Off!” She screamed after it, but the waver in her voice belied her bravado.

Then, suddenly, she was enveloped in a heavy coat, and an umbrella held over her.

The kind man from before smiled shyly at her and said. “I'll stay until the next cab.”

She smiled, her broken features turning to genuine gratitude.

“Thank you. I’m Kitty.”

The man, who despite the flowers clutched in his hand, flushed as if no pretty woman had ever given him the time of day. “Harold. My name’s Harold.”

\---------

“I only work on unhappy clients.”

\-------- 

She was waiting tables, blue skirt and hairnet, not a hint of makeup on her face. It was 7.30, and the man at the corner table had been there all day, drinking cup after cup of coffee as he listened to screams from his cell. He barely noticed the kind smile from the waitress, until she stopped by with a slice of pie.

His cell rang as she set it down before him, but for the first time he hesitated.

“I...I didn't order this.”

“On the house, sweetheart. You looked like you could use it.”

He spun the plate and his eyes widened, even as his cell screamed.

“Banana Cream? It’s my favorite! How'd -”

The pretty waitress tapped her brow. “Hard working man like you? You need to keep your brain going!”

Just then, the diner door crashed open and a mousy woman in a bright red tunic and matching lurid lipstick crashed in.

“Willard! Where are you, you lazy man! I’ve been calling for hours!” 

Willard swallowed, and stood up hastily. “S-sorry, miss. I’ve got to - “

The waitress patted his arm. “Don’t you worry about it, hon. You just come back and ask for Katie, and I’ll get you your pie.”

He looked over his shoulder as he was dragged from the restaurant, just in time to catch the kindest smile he’d ever seen grace the face of the waitress. And it was just for him…

\-------- 

“Rule two, they can’t be genuinely in love.”

\-------- 

“Does your husband treat you this way?” The street-punk screamed at the officer who was pulling her in. “Bet he _looooves_ when you violate his civil liberties!”

“My girlfriend is a judge.” The officer said, slamming the jail-cell in the punk’s face. “And she told me to get all you off the street before the rally tomorrow.”

“Really? That ain’t right.” But the girl sat down, cuffs balanced on torn jeans, band-shirt declaring War for the Puzz! and said nothing more. 

Officer Tina Winterstone bit back a further response, not daring to speak out against the actions her girlfriend had taken. But throughout her shift she glanced back to the punk, nibbling at her lip and wondering if maybe this time Elsie had gone too far. And there were rumors...things she had told Tina not to investigate...

When the punk was back in for questioning the next day, she found herself asking those questions, along with a dozen more, and found herself looking at the bruises left by The cops and the rap-sheet filled with peaceful protests, while her girlfriend demanded jail-time for every participant...

It was too much. They were supposed to be there for these kids, not put them in jail! And when the pretty punk cried in her arms about friends who had gone missing and never been found, never been _looked for_...she found herself wondering if love had always felt so much like doubt. And if her own past would have landed her in jail just like the girl. And if Elsie would have cared.

\---------

“And that’s it. Follow the rules, and we have 100% success.”

The woman behind the desk raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, clearly interested.

\-------------

She was a bartender, hair up in a pony-tail and eye-shadow that sparkled, a silent listener for any who needed to talk.

Mason couldn’t help it. He spilled his guts to the silent woman, daring her to judge him, daring her to laugh, daring her to kick him out for failing to meet expectations. 

But she didn’t say anything, just nodded and listened, and he found himself coming back day after day, making Patty sneer and call him a lush, never mind that he drank more lemonade than beer, never mind that Patty’s wine shelf dwarfed his beers and she looked down on him for not knowing the difference between a _Malbec_ and a _Merlot_. 

When the bartender finally spoke, on the third day, it was to suggest “Try a _Moliere_. It’ll go well with your lemonade.”

Each day she opened up more, and they talked about beer, how it was made, where the best local breweries were, whether flavorings were essential or an unnecessary addition. 

He won her smile on the fifth day, and he realized that he hadn’t seen Patty smile at him for a month. On the sixth, he realized that he hadn’t smiled since long before then. But with the bartender he smiled every day. His heart lifted when he saw her, rather than tense in expectation of an insult when he opened the door.

For the first time, he felt like living, and when she quit, his heart broke into dozens of pieces. Only her note soothed the pain.

“Mason. You’ve made me feel alive again. But I can never give you what you want - no, what you deserve. I’ve been broken for too long. But you - you can find love again. And when you do, tell her to try the _Moliere_.”

\----------

“And no harm will come to him?”

“Guaranteed. He’ll be happier, we promise.”

\--------

They had been dancing for hours. Every song that came on was another favorite, every dance one that reminded him of better times. Duke couldn’t remember the last time Cindy had danced with him. She always said square-dances were ‘plebeian' and ‘country'.

The way she spoke about it broke his heart a little more each time, but he loved her, so he was giving it all up. Just one more dance…

And then she had waltzed in, tan cowboy hat and boots with spurs that tinkled laughter as she walked. She smiled and he followed her to the dance-floor without a second thought.

And now they were dancing, her eyes rosy and his breath straining, his tie lost long ago, abandoned along with her hat, and their steps made clumsy by time but their smiles no less strong.

When the musicians called for break, she collapsed on a hay bale and stared up into the stars, smile on her face, and all the cracks in his heart seemed to heal in one, glorious moment.

“It’s been so long since I’ve been to a dance.” She said, tracing Orion with her fingertip.

“It’s the same for me.” He said, watching her rather than the stars.

“I forgot how it makes you feel alive.” 

“Yes.” 

She shifted, and turned to look at him, her deep brown eyes sucking him in.

“You’ve made me feel alive. And it’s been so long…” 

He darted forward, and swore, “It’s the same for me. You made me realize...I haven’t been living life until now. We could - “

Then her smile shifted, and tears dotted her freckled cheeks, while she held out a single finger to still his lips. “No. It’s too late for me.” But she still smiled through the tears. “But you...You can still be happy. You can find your true partner out there. Someone who will dance you to the stars.”

And with a sigh she sat up, hay caught in her blond hair, and he jerked forward before she could leave - 

“Thank you. Thank you for showing me this.”

And she smiled over her shoulder as she walked out of his life forever.

\---

And she waved good bye from the train, her tears matching his as he whispered “Thank you.”

\---

And her last dance was just for him, a perfect tender goodbye, and he was the first to stand in ovation, calling out “Thank you" as she bowed deep.

\----

And on, and on, pictures littering the desk.

All hearts broken. All hearts saved.

Griselda looked up, and smiled at Marianne Summers, owner and leader of _The Manic Pixie Heartbreakers_ , and knew she had found the right woman.


	2. Caroline, soon to be King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So how _does_ a Heartbreaker work? And how bad is this Caroline in reality?

“Alright, Sunny. Give me the rundown.”

Sunny spun from where he had been glued to his computer monitors.

“Bog King, heir to  _ King _ enterprises. 32, single until last year, an apparent work-a-holic. Likes...well, we’re still working on that. He apparently doesn’t like  _ anything _ . Except maybe solitude.”

“Which makes it really weird that he’s getting married  _ now _ .” Added Dawn, popping out from the shop-front, where she acted as the perfect innocuous receptionist, despite the quasi-legal nature of their business.

“I don’t know, Dawn.” Sunny said, “He seems to genuinely love this girl. Doesn’t that violate Rule 2?” 

“Oh come on! A man who looks like that, with a pretty puff pastry like this Caroline? No way in hell. I bet she’s got something on him. Like...blackmail or something.”

“Naw, the Kings got out of the Mafia thing  _ years _ ago. No way he’s still running it.”

“Book-stores and florists can be nefarious! Just think: all those  _ dead _ things. Always staring at you. Dying slowly, day by day, until they’re too dead to sell and you  _ burn _ them.”

“Dawn, you are _not_ seriously making a flower-shop creepy.”

“Just thinking!”

“Shut up, both of you.” Marianne said, and the two complied instantly. “Let me think.”

She paced the dark back-room of their office, considering. One loop of the space, taking her past Sunny’s bank of computer monitors, still showing candid photos of Bog King. Another loop past Dawn’s costume racks, lining a whole wall, hung with uniforms from every possible career. A third, past Marianne’s punching bag and weight-set, the mats squeaking as her feet passed over them. She had discarded the heels the instant she had gotten back home and now was dressed in loose slacks and a sweat-stained t-shirt. The bag was going to get some work.

A fourth loop reminded her of their apartments upstairs, of the leaky roof and groaning pipes, and how much keeping up with Dawn’s lifestyle and her own obsession with detail cost.

She came to a halt before the monitors again, having made her decision.

“We need the money. We take the contract, but pull out if he really loves her.”

Sunny and Dawn considered this, then nodded in unison. 

Dawn then grinned and declared, excitedly, “The HeartBreakers are on the case!”

 

\----------

The problem was not making Bog King fall for Marianne Summers. With six years of experience in the field and a theater degree as well as the daddy-demanded business degree, Marianne could make just about any man she wanted to fall, and fall hard. 

No, the problem was  _ should _ she make him fall. For most clients it was relatively easy - concerned sisters, brothers, parents and coworkers came to  _ Pixie  _ with stories of abuse of all sorts, from physical to mental to simply watching their loved one slowly lose their spark to a loveless relationship. It was easy to see on their ‘victims' faces when love had worn them down and left them feeling lost and hopeless.

The issue was compounded by recent pictures. Bog King had not seemed happy for years, every image showing a dour, serious man. It was only since he’d met Caroline that he’d smiled at all. In all the publicity photos they looked like a perfect couple, and even in candid moments they seemed genuinely in love.

But the  _ real  _ problem was the time.

“Ten DAYS?” Marianne shouted into the phone. “Are you  _ MAD _ ?”

Griselda, secure in her penthouse and thoughtfully cleaning her nails with a machete, said, “I hired you to ruin a wedding. That wedding is in ten days. Why should that be a problem?”

Sunny and Dawn jerked as a paperweight flew across the room.

“We are  _ professionals. _ We need that much time just to do surveillance.”

“Professionals learn to swing with the punches, my dear.”

Marianne’s face went through several different expressions, two of which had her sister ducking under the counter, until it settled into a neutral fume. 

“These professionals are going to need  _ double _ the fee, then. Half of it up-front, before we even touch the case.”

Griselda smiled happily to herself, and nodded. “Not a problem. I can’t wait to see you in Monaco! Now, I have to go congratulate the lucky couple, and you need to get to work. Toodles~”

Marianne slammed the phone down, and Sunny groaned. “Why can’t we be seducing  _ her _ ? She’s crazy enough to fall in a  _ day _ .”

“Never mind that. Pack up what you can carry. We’re doing this by the seat of our pants.”

\---------- 

Griselda King had always had a soft spot for her son. He was such a kind boy, and other than that dust-up at university he had been the perfect hard-working heir to his father’s empire. She had been careful to ensure that he didn’t dirty himself with their less  _ legal  _ side-business, and despite his looks and general demeanor nothing from that part of their lives had harmed his chances in life or in love. 

Unfortunately, he had no such motivation, and had left her completely bereft of grandchildren for thirty years too long. Convinced he was too ugly to love on his own merits, she had badgered him incessantly to find a “good, sweet girl" who “sees the  _ real _ you.”

Caroline Clarkson fit perfectly into the first category. Even as  _ Pixie  _ was discovering the same thing, Griselda was face to face with the sad truth.

Caroline Clarkson was perfect. She had huge blue eyes, perfect blond hair, and an innocent, kind smile that she turned on Bog often during their long pre-flight dinner. She was from a good family, carried herself like a princess, and nestled into Bog’s arm as if she had been born there. Her friends were all society girls, going to good schools and coming out with excellent educations, and she could participate in any conversation with ease, no matter how dull or complex.

As Griselda worked her way through the lobster at the best Parisian restaurant Bog could find reservations for, she watched Caroline simper and smile, flushing when Bog patted her hand and watching her son with stars in her eyes. 

She spoke eloquently on her charity work, about her work with low-income girls, and on her trips to Africa to distribute reading material and sanitary supplies. Bog responded in kind, talking of the school reading program _Dark Forest_ _Books_ touted as its premier charity, brainstorming with his fiance on ways they could combine their various charitable works into one superior charity. Caroline was quick to add suggestions of her own. Then, as they paid the bill, she asked for a box, ignored the startled expressions at the faux pas, and hurried out to hand her 100 euro leftovers to a pair of bums across the street. 

She was perfect. Perfect in every way.

And Griselda hated her. 

She wasn’t right for her Boggy, but how could she tell that to him after he finally,  _ finally  _ broke down and found a mate? After all the years of nagging and begging, of bringing in eligible suitors and pairing him with every woman who came across his path,  _ now  _ she was complaining? The irony was enough to make her faint, and she saved  _ that _ for special occasions. 

Her only hope was the Heartbreakers. If they couldn’t come through, then her son would be stuck in a sickening, perfect marriage.

  
\--------------- 


	3. Bland and Bitter Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne and the Heartbreakers arrive at the hotel and try to find something - anything - that is interesting about their newest 'client'.

The King family, and the entire wedding party, flew in private jets to Monaco. Despite Dawn’s requests,  _ Pixie _ flew coach, all three shoved tight together in an over-crowded plane full of vacationers hoping to get a glimpse of the King and Clarkson wedding, Dawn chomping through the leftovers from their first surveillance fail. At least their conversations were not out of place amid the flurry of gossip.

“Okay, get this. She spends half her income on charity, with a preference to the ACLU, Doctor’s Without Borders, and education efforts for young girls.” Sunny read from the  _ Forbes  _ magazine they had picked up on the topic.

“Lovely.”

“And she makes sure to hire people from all walks of life. Her stylist is a Somali immigrant, her masseur was saved from a ‘massage parlor’, her financial adviser was snubbed by Harvard because she’s gay, and she refuses to meet with any business rumored to use sweatshop labor…” Dawn read from  _ Vogue _ .

“Yeah, I get the point, Dawn.” Marianne sunk deeper into her seat.

“It would almost be easier to seduce  _ her _ than  _ him. _ ” Dawn continued.

“What do you mean?” Sunny asked.

“Well, he’s not very handsome, right? And she’s so amazing and he’s kind of...bland. Like he’s always trying really hard to be perfect, and it results in the most boring guy  _ ever _ .” 

“Huh.” Marianne said, while Sunny frowned and said nothing. For a woman who made her living helping her sister seduce and save men, Dawn was surprisingly slow at noticing Sunny’s crush on her. Never mind that they had known each other since childhood, and he had followed them through everything, including through the train-wreck of college and into this job, passing up much better paying options just to be around Dawn.

Well, eventually Dawn would catch on, or Sunny would realize that Love was a Lie and move on. Either way, there would be drama, and Marianne dealt with so much drama at work that she wanted nothing to do with it in her personal life.

Oh well. They had a job to do, and Marianne excelled at the hard sell. It got her mind buzzing, ideas sparking and connections being made. She came alive in a con, just like she had once dreamed she would come alive in a board room.

“Sunny. Go back to looking up dirt on Bog. Dawn might have an idea there…”

\-------------

Five hours later, ensconced in a ludicrously expensive hotel room paid for by Griselda, Marianne was personally swearing vengeance upon Bog King's publicist.

The Bog King in the papers was _boooooring_ , a complete blank slate of a man. Not a paragon of innocent perfection like his fiancee Caroline, no, he was every bit the sharp business tycoon he needed to be to compete with the sharks in his market.

But he either spent his entire life at the office, or had a publicist that ate paparazzi for lunch. Were there scandals? Of course. Four, with five separate members of the board of directors being tried for insider trading, smuggling, tax evasion, or all three at once. But half the time it was  _ Bog _ who broke the news, explaining in carefully worded statements why each board member had been asked to leave, apparently preferring honesty to any potential financial fallout. As a result, his stocks stayed steady, both investors and consumers coming to associate the  _ DFB _ brand with honesty and integrity, no matter what upsets there were in the larger markets. Backed up with the excellent quality of his products and an eye for new areas to expand into,  _ DFB  _ grew slowly, but safely.

He was a strict boss, but one who paid his employees fairly, and turnover was higher at the corporate level than in his stores. In both places employees who lasted the first month stayed for the long haul, and his commitment to his workers meant that as long as they followed the rules, they would have a job for life. Were there angry comments? Yes, but they generally fell into the category of “former employee was terminated for things he could get away with in another company".

As for his personal life...there was little information. He was 32. Born in December, making him a Capricorn, in the year of the Ox, with blood type A, but he put no stock in horoscopes. He owned good cars, but was not a fanatic like many of his contemporaries. He said he found racing tiring, both cars and horses. He never gambled over a hundred dollars, though society high rollers complained at the waste of such an excellent poker face. He could recommend a good wine, but did not drink to excess. He exercised, but showed no preference for a particular sport, running, cycling and climbing in equal amounts. He could ride, but didn’t, because he looked like a stick on a plank when he mounted the horses that matched his height. Yet he wasn’t vain - he couldn’t be with such a craggy, dour face, yet he never mentioned pursuing plastic surgery or desiring to be more attractive, even as a young man interviewed while standing beside his much more handsome peers.

“Sunny, please tell me you have something,  _ anything _ on this man that isn’t PR bullshit. I can seduce a paper cutout.”

“I might just have that.” A thick manila folder hit the bed, spilling photos across the coverlet. “Griselda might scream at the internet bill, but she can't complain if she was the one who sent the pics, right?”

“What is this?” Marianne asked as she flipped open the folder.

“Twenty years of family albums, digitized and sent to yours truly. Printed out at Kinko's, and it better be coming out of our expense account, because that's four hundred pages of one ugly mug.”

Dawn snickered as Sunny collapsed dramatically back onto the couch. The room had only one bed. Intentionally, not because of the cost. Should Marianne need to take their 'client' upstairs, it wouldn't do to have him suspect that there was a team watching him...or that there were a half dozen bugs peppering both this room and the loving couple's suit. Sunny was pulling out all the stops for their biggest gig yet.

Marianne examined the photos thoughtfully. “Okay, new rule. No one is calling Bog ugly.”

“You started it!” Dawn complained, bouncing up from her seat on the desk and coming to look over Marianne s shoulder.

“Doesn't matter. We're supposed to be seducing him. And he probably feels shitty about his looks, so we're not going to even think about it while we're here.”

“Easy for you to say. He's your type.”

“I don't have a type, dawn. That's the point.”

“Well, yeah, but if you _did_ have one, it'd be craggy, mature Scotsmen who look as far as possible from He-who-can't-be-named as humanly possible.” And, following up a pronouncement that had her sister turning interesting shades of purple, Dawn cooed, “oh, but look what an adorable baby Bog was!”

Marianne stood suddenly and walked to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Sunny gulped, waiting for a crash, but cautiously sidled over to sit by Dawn when no bathroom rage was forthcoming.

“You really shouldn't mention that.” He said. “You know she goes nuts.”

"It's been five years. She'll get over it.”

“I don't think that's something you can really ‘get over’, Dawn. She -”

“ _She_ can hear you!” Came from the bathroom, along with the sound of running water. “ _She_ expects you to be working out there!”

“Ugh. Fine!” Dawn shouted back.

She turned back to the photos, seriously this time. This was hardly the first family album gifted to them by worried family members, but this one was perhaps the most extensive yet. From babe to brooding teen, Griselda King seemed to have had her camera eternally glued to her son.

“A face only a mother could love…” murmured Sunny, and Dawn had to agree. Even as a child Bog’s features were lean and pointed, leaving him looking a good two years older than any of his classmates, even without the added lanky height. There were a few, early years in which Griselda seemed to be fighting the inevitable tide, and the toddler that eventually grew into Bog was pictured in dozens of sweet costumes and immaculate suits. Piercing blue eyes stared out of the images, but seemed to bear his mother’s whims surprisingly well for a boy that would become a tycoon. Many pictures showed him beside his father, serious little face matching his father’s perfectly.

Of course, the blackmail material found within the pictures was phenomenal, but the  _ Pixies _ were professionals. Bog might be mortified that anyone, ever, had seen his infant photos, but he was at no more risk from Dawn and Sunny that he would be from a company-demanded psychologist, and quite a bit less at risk than when his mother got into her cups and regaled the whole world with stories of her ‘cute, adorable son who was so _sweet_ as a boy’.

His looks were a blessing, then, as everyone would still take him seriously, despite all his mother’s work to the contrary. It was obvious when he began to realize this, as around twelve his clothing took a turn to the darker and his candid glare became more pointed.

But that wasn't really what they were looking for. The serious face was the one Bog showed the world, and it certainly came to him naturally, but they needed more than that.

“Sunny, could you hack into his personal finances?” Dawn asked, thoughtfully turning pages.

“Hack into the statements of a billionaire to find his hidden purchases? Controlled by surely one of the most powerful banks in the world? Behind layers of protections and certain jail-time if I’m caught?”

She glanced up, eyes widening in a pleading expression. “For  _ me _ ?”

He handed her another envelope. “Already done, Dawn.”

Her smile lit up her face, half joy, half pride in his accomplishments. “You’re brilliant!”

He preened, and there was a retch from the bathroom. Marianne stalked out, her normal heavy makeup washed away along with any hint of the emotion that had sent her into hiding.

“Ugh! That’s it. I’m going to the gym. And cut the cutsy stuff, I can still hear you through my earpiece.”

The gym bag was already by the door, and Marianne bolted, talking under her breath as Dawn and Sunny’s warnings followed her down the elevator.

“What if you run into Bog?” Dawn worried.

“He’s not even here yet.” Mari replied. “He got diverted by some business crisis. Right?”

“Yeah.” said Sunny. “He’ll be in at noon. What about Caroline?”

“Personal trainer.” Dawn said. “I suppose we could always go with the gym meet - not what I would have gone with, but if circumstances demand…”

“I’ll make sure to look suitably sweaty.” Marianne muttered, snapping her mouth shut as a herd of other guests invaded the elevator, only to get off two floors later. Not a single one of them noticed her, though she recognized about half of them from the guest list. Their animated discussion would have drowned out anything she could have responded with anyways.

She found the gym with relief, listening with half an ear as her partners tallied the various sports and hobbies their subject had pictures of: from rugby to polo, who knew how many were carefully scripted photo-ops and how many indicated genuine interest from the young Bog.

As she tied on her gloves the two discarded any sports as true passions, and as she started to pummel the bag they began comparing purchasing lists and order destinations to the various pictures they had pulled out.

In a love story, this is when Bog would have appeared, to see a furious Marianne venting her hidden anger on the bag, flecks of sweat flipping from her hair at every impact, her lithe dancer’s body wholly given over to violence. In that moment the world faded away from her, her focus only on the bag and the man’s face she projected upon it in her mind. Only when  _ that bastard _ had faded from her mind could she truly take time to think, to plan and strategize, and then the repetitive motion acted as inspiration rather than just a tool to stop her from murdering everyone around her.

But Bog was still on his flight from Paris, Caroline and her mother choosing flower arrangements, and the only guest who saw her was an old friend of Griselda’s who happened to be passing by, who paused at the gym door to peer in at the mad woman at the bag, watched for a moment with an unreadable expression on his kind face, then sighed and went on his way.

She was on the weights when they finally found something, Dawn crowing into the microphone,

“I've got it!”

Marianne glanced around the room, confirming that no one would see her apparently talking to herself, the said, “What do you have?”

“Boggy is a romantic!”

Marianne paused on the weights. “What?”

“With a capital “R”. He owns a bunch of art work -wait, is that a  _ Turner _ Sunny? I've seen that in museums!”

There was a muffled “loans it out" from across the line. Sunny was clearly deep in some kind of computer code and his com turned off.

“Still. Turner, Blake, he must half half a gallery all to himself. I’m flipping through his collection right now, and it's all decent stuff. I wonder who his curator is? Perhaps Daddy could - “

“Focus, Dawn.” Marianne started the weights again, turning over this fact in her mind. Bog, a Romantic? It was possible. Marianne favored modernism herself while Dawn adored the Pre-Raphaelites. Oddly, it fit, though Dawn seemed confused.

“He’s so  _ dour _ and stoic. I wouldn’t have thought he’d like such an emotional movement.”

“It makes perfect sense to me. He’s constructed this image of him being the perfect, clear-headed CEO. He doesn’t seem to party or go out drinking - maybe art is his way of letting his emotions out.”

“I guess. But most of his stuff is only landscapes. Dark forests and crazy ocean waves. I’d expect more people, you know?”

“Eh. The photo-album showed him as a stoic loner who hasn’t ever really  _ lived _ . Like those beatnik poets that hung around the theater department at college, talking about the ‘real world’ and how hard life was if you know the truth…”

“If I remember you enjoyed poking holes in their arguments and embarrassing them in front of their dates.”

Marianne smirked. “Like shooting fish in a barrel. What’s his music selection like?”

“Sunny just finished that - he got a clear picture of Bog’s CD rack from his office. Who uses CDs anymore?”

“People who were born before 1990, Dawn. Or who have sound-systems like a CEO can afford. Though they generally have records instead…”

“Oh, he has a shelf of those too. And an iPod, but Sunny can’t get access to that. Uh...Records are mostly classical music, CDs are Space, EBM and Industrial Techno - I guess good working music - but he has a whole  _ shelf _ of musicals.”

“And he takes Caroline to Broadway every time they’re in New York.” Sunny called, “She buys tickets to drama’s on her own, so it's a good guess that he actually likes them.”

Well, that was out of character. Marianne considered her careful construction of brooding poet Bog, and added in the mental image of him singing along with loud theater. Its didn’t quite fit.

“Do we have an idea of his favorites?”

“No, but I emailed Griselda and - wait, what was that Sunny?”

The conversation faded from Marianne’s ears, only to make her wince when Dawn squeaked into the mic.

“Oh, this is  _ amazing _ . Guess where Bog proposed!”

“I assume you’re going to tell me.”

“At a private showing of  _ The Fantasticks _ .”

Silence.

“You know, the one we loved as kids, because mom always played the music?”

More silence.

“She was always bugging me to practice with her, because it requires two piano players, and you always would do the singing…”

The silence stretched, and Dawn petered off her reminiscing. Marianne had a lovely voice, it was what had prompted her to get a dual-degree, but she hadn’t sang for years. Since…since  _ him,  _ but even before that, when their mom died.

The memory was so clear in Dawn’s mind, just as it was in Marianne’s. A sunny parlor room in their New York apartment, Father away on business, homework done for the day, and their mother’s agile fingers flying across the keys. She had been a concert pianist, but she never played anything so difficult for her daughters. It was always fun stuff - things one could sing along to - and she would hum as Marianne sang the songs from memory and Dawn followed along on piano, childish fingers stretching to reach the keys that their mother played so confidently.

The Fantasticks was the best because of the two piano parts, and the way Marianne would dance around the room, pretending to the different characters, from the two fathers, the wall and the lovers who looked through it, to the villain who did what was best for everybody and remained Marianne’s favorite until  _ he  _ came along and ruined everything.

“Anyways, it seems you have something in common.”

“We're not using that.” Marianne said quietly.

“What?”

“Not using it. Find something else.”

Dawn was quiet for a moment, then mumbled agreement before hurrying to change the subject.

“Anyways, it looks like he was into arts in high school, maybe even before. Griselda sent us playbills and report cards along with the photos - Bog was never technically a lead, but he did get some good parts. Let’s see...Audry 2 in Little Shop of Horrors, Iago from Othello, Mercutio from Romeo and Juliet...oh, and the M.C from Cabaret. The reviews were pretty good, saying his voice was a bit lacking but he never forgot a line...which apparently was a big problem in most of their productions. He played piano in jazz band, there are a few pictures from what looks like a poetry slam, and he took enough art classes that Griselda has one of his pieces hanging in her office. Not his best work, by the looks of it, but he seems angsty sort to burn stuff he doesn’t like. Certainly we’ve no proof of the poetry or the paintings, and given how meticulous she is, I don’t think Griselda would have left it out unless he had it under lock and key.” She was babbling, she knew, but their mother and  _ him _ were two subjects that Marianne never spoke of, and Dawn had flubbed by managing to bring up both within an hour.

“Grades?” There was dull thumping as Marianne switched from hand weights to hanging ones, and if her voice was clipped it was just as likely to be from exertion as anger.

“All straight As” Sunny chimed in. “And not because someone paid to buff his scores, like with some of the other students. He got into the Ivy’s on his own merits, went to Cornell for two years before switching to Oxford to finish up. Grades were fine there too, so I’m not sure why he switched. Business major, obviously.”

“Just like you.” Dawn added, despite Sunny’s audible wince at the statement. “Creative bent but wanted to take up Daddy’s business.”

“But he never got out.” Marianne said with some satisfaction. “We’ve got a over-achiever with an artistic streak who’s never let himself  _ live _ . Who does everything right, but let his mother nag him into loving a perfect little cupcake to fit the script. This might be easier than I though.”

“I hope so…”  Sunny interrupted. “Because he just got here.”

\---------------


	4. The Perfect Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne meets Bog...and the competition.

Quick transformations were something of a Marianne specialty. Theater classes helped with that, as did Dawn’s instinct for fashion and makeup. Coming up with plans on the fly was something that was less natural, certainly something she hadn’t been born with, and a skill that her sister was only finally growing into at 23. 

So. Shower - 5 minutes. Hair and makeup - 15. Clothes from their limited cabinet - 7, and no silly montages of trying things on. Marianne knew what she needed and dived for the perfect skirt and boot combination without hesitation. Efficient packing meant that she was the one in control of the suitcases - not Dawn, who reigned supreme over the makeup.

No time for hair dye, but highlights might work their way in depending on Bog’s reaction. No time for prep or practice, and barely enough for Sunny to fake up documents and ids, but he was a master just as the women were and printed off the badges just as Dawn finished tousling Marianne’s hair. 

Thirty minutes, and Marianne was waiting outside the hotel, press-badge over a mildly expensive blouse and skirt, heels just short enough to be practical, tablet note-pad at the ready, subtly perfecting her smile as the limousine drove up.

That smile stayed plastered on her face as a tiny man dashed past her the instant the car stopped and opened the door, releasing The Bog King.

He was tall. _God_ he was tall. Marianne had noticed him slouching in most of the pictures, but had not realized that it was more than just teenage attitude, rather than necessary to remain even remotely in the same picture as everyone else. His father had not been so tall. That man had looked like one of her dad’s drinking buddies. And Griselda was positively tiny, concentrating her wits and malice into a pint-size terror machine. Surely the two of them could not have produced this behemoth. Yet there he was, grown out of the boy-hood pictures into a man who demanded the eye widen to take him all in. And he employed bodyguards who could match his height.

But Marianne was a professional, and her smile was just the right one to make the man himself freeze when he saw her, and she knew she had chosen her disguise correctly.

A man with such a carefully constructed facade could not be won over with gifts and pretty smiles. He would ignore - rightly so - any pretty waitress or valet making eyes at him. He would dismiss any bodyguard, trainer or chef who dared ask a leading question.

But there was one thing every millionare feared, and as he stalked down the path towards the hotel, flanked by brutish bodyguards and surrounded by secretaries and aids, Marianne stepped directly into his path and without preamble announced,

“Mari Dawkings, Business Insider, Marriage and Merger Correspondent. I’ll be covering your wedding.”

\----------------------------------- 

“No.”

In any other circumstances, getting picked up and almost thrown out on sight would _not_ be the best introduction to a potential lover. Perhaps Marianne had been a bit cocky.

But she had chosen her story carefully, with the idea that a powerful, influential man like Bog desired most was a _challenge_. So she had given him one.

The instant she introduced herself, he dismissed her, motioning to his guards to bodily move her out of his way. He didn’t even take the time to explain: there was no press invited to the wedding, a fact that had been _clearly_ announced. And Bog _hated_ the press. Only an inexperienced journalist would ever _dare_ come to him unannounced.

“Your _mother_ hired me.”

Inside, Marianne crowed at the sudden shift in the mogul’s expression. The impertinent reporter went from minor irritation to major inconvenience in a mere second. 

He glared at her.

“You’re lying.”

Hanging a good two feet off the ground, halfway to being beaten to a pulp, Marianne still felt the power shift to her. He hoped she was lying. But a photo album, full of cutesy outfits and snaps from every candid angle proved that his mother was just the kind of person to pull this kind of thing.

“Call your mother. She arranged it all.”

The tiny assistant who had run to open the door appeared by his side, phone already out.

“Need some help, sir?” 

“No!” Bog snapped, but took the phone anyways, while Marianne caught the look the little man and one of the other assistants exchanged. In another boss, the reaction to being yelled at would be irritation or rolled eyes, but the two shared a hidden smile at his gruff answer, the bigger of the two almost looking amused at King’s reaction.

His long fingers darted across the phone, and Marianne wondered at the fact that he had his mother on speed-dial. Though her picture was of a pink-tinted hellscape, which did fit with what she knew of the woman.

“Mother.” He growled. “Did you hire a _journalist_ for my wedding?”

Elsewhere, Griselda’s eyebrows raised, and she glanced at her own bodyguard, a fearsome woman named Maxine. 

“Do you have a name for this supposed journalist?”

Bog glanced at the press-badge dangling before his face.

“She says her name is Mari. With a starburst on the ‘i’. Mother, we talked about this!”

Instantly, Griselda’s confusion cleared, and she pressed a hand over the microphone. “She’s pretending to be a wedding journalist!” She hissed to Maxine. “That’s _brilliant_!” Then, to her son, she said, “Oh, yes, I do remember something like that. I know you wanted a quiet wedding, but surely _one_ journalist wouldn’t be a problem. She comes _highly_ recommended.”

Maxine snorted while Griselda hid a giggle.

Meanwhile, the little assistant pulled out his own device and showed it to Bog. Marianne already knew what it displayed - ‘M. Dawkins’ with picture, plus a tag-line and list of articles, right there on the Business Insider webpage. _Marlieen_ Dawkings, currently out on maternity leave and rather busy with twins, would never know someone had tampered with her picture.

Bog ended the call and thrust the phone back at his assistant.

“Fine. Put her down, Brutus.” He crossed his arms and took a look at the newest addition to his wedding.

Marianne stood and brushed the creases off her skirt, knowing that what he saw would both both irritate and intrigue him. She was a tiny woman with spike heels that did nothing to hide the fact that he dwarfed her. She looked just as professional as any other reporter he might have come across, but just beneath the surface there was a hint of something else. Stilettos sharp enough to kill, clothes just a touch too dark for a spring wedding, perfect makeup with purple eye-shadow and hair tousled in such a way to look halfway to punk-rock should she spike it up anymore.

In other words, someone who was professional, but not a pushover. 

“Frankly, I am more interested in the way this wedding affects your business, Mr. King, but your mother was quite insistent on covering every possible side of your upcoming nuptials. She even suggested a title: _Death of a Bachelor: The rebirth of a New Empire_ , but that seems a bit excessive for me. Since this is a paid piece, your PR office will have final say in editing, so you need not worry about anything untoward getting out. However, I would greatly appreciate if you would allow me to tail you for the time being, so as to get a fuller idea of the differences between your pre- and post- marriage life. Any time you could set aside for interviews would also be greatly appreciated, but I understand you are a busy man.”

Bog considered, “How long will this article be?”

“Twenty pages, with full-color pictures and a history of your business.”

He pursed his lips, about to answer, when - 

“Oh, Boggy, say _yes_!”

\------------

Caroline Clarkson was beautiful. She dashed out of the hotel doors, skirt billowing behind her, towards the man she had been waiting all morning for. She was warm and bright, an angel in a blue sun-dress and designer sandals, and she threw herself at her fiance, unbridled joy on her face at his arrival. 

The warning Sunny called out was too late, coming the moment he saw her from the hotel cameras. But Caroline had darted out too fast, parasol still tightly folded, sacrificing decorum to welcome her future husband.

Bright and blue in Bog’s arms, she turned to Marianne, smiling like the sun, not a hint of suspicion or malice in her eyes.

“Your mother is right, Boggy. People will say silly things if we don’t allow at least one reporter in.”

Bog hesitated before patting her awkwardly on the back, the expression on his face chilling Marianne to the bone. _He_ hadn’t expected Caroline to come for him. He wasn’t sure what to do with a warm hug. His cheeks flushed as she snuggled closer, as if he had never even been touched by a girl, much less had one who appeared to enjoy his presence. All his aloof coldness melted under her touch, and Marianne’s plan for winning his heart stuttered to a stop.

And Caroline...all of Dawn and Sunny’s doubts could not have been more wrong. She looked at her fiance with stars in her eyes, seeing right through his craggy features and fearsome reputation, right into the sweet romantic that Marianne had hoped to tease out. Bog was her hero, her mirror, her other half, and she didn’t care what others thought of it, only sparing time to correct the fools who would question her heart.

In a word, she clearly loved him, and he was stunned at his good fortune. 

Caroline turned her bright blue eyes back to Marianne and said, “Do you have a room yet? Is there anyone else in your team? Are there any accommodations you need?”

Marianne found herself responding with half an thought while the rest of her mind race, “Griselda already arranged for our stay. My photographer is the only other member of my crew. We brought all the tools we need. You needn’t go out of your way to help…”

“Oh, don’t be silly! I want all of our guests to be as comfortable as possible, and just as happy as Boggy and I are!” She smiled up at Bog, and he returned it as best he could.

“Caroline! Think of your complexion!” Called a woman from beneath the heavy canopy over the doors. “We still have invitations to write!”

“Ah, duty calls.” She stood on tip-toe and placed a kiss on Bog’s cheek. “See you at lunch, my love.” 

And she was gone, serenely this time, swinging her parasol up with perfect poise belied by the bright smile and sprightly humming. Her assistant squinted out into the sun, exasperated expression on her face, and hurried to bring the sunny summer child back into the protective shade.

Marianne looked after her, shocked and shaken to her core.

“She takes everyone like that, Caroline.” Bog said, watching the reporter’s expression. “Is she everything you expected?”

“...no.” Marianne answered honestly, which did much to ease his opinion of her.

“She’s beautiful. And kind. And brilliant. That is what all the papers say.” He turned to her. “What do you think?”

Marianne looked after the woman who was supposed to be her rival.

“She reminds me of my sister.”


	5. Thing 1 and Thang 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne makes friends with the last people two people she would have expected, and receives a strange plea.

Bog blinked at Mari's words, and focused a more critical eye on the supposed reporter. In his experience, paid writers tended to grovel and flatter their ways into interviews. They dribbled lies down their cheeks and spoke honeyed words in an effort to steal things they had no business knowing. Accepting this made them much easier to deal with, and so they rarely surprised him.

But Mari’s answer brought him up short, as did the moment of sadness in her eyes before her mask of professionalism slid back into place.

“Your sister?”

“Ah, sorry. My sister was a lot like Caroline as a kid, before all my crap made her grow up too fast.” She explained, still a tad wistful. “Your fiancee...she smiles like she’s never been hurt. So all that kindness...it comes from sweetness, not empathy. It’s as natural to her as breathing, not something just put on for people like me. And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, Mr. King, not many people in your circle are allowed to be so kind.”

“That is...astute of you.” he said, completely taken aback by the frankness from the woman, and for her ability to recognize the same qualities in Caroline that he did. “Most of my colleagues follow a statement such as that with words like ‘naive’. I suggest you do not do the same.”

The reporter chuckled. “Just because she’s young doesn’t mean she’s innocent. You can lower your hackles, sir. I’ve done my research, and I’ve seen where she puts her charity dollars. She wields money like the weapon it is.” She turned back to him, and did something that shocked him again.

She met his eyes. 

Eyes are the window to the soul, they said, and it was true in Bog’s experience. In corporate circles it was easy to read a man’s character by just how practiced his firm handshake and measured smile, and how easily they paired with eyes dulled to hide any emotion or which shifted away too quickly. There were two sorts of men who would confidently meet a King’s eyes - braggarts who needed to feel big, and fools who didn’t know the danger.

Caroline was no fool, but she fit into the latter category, so innocently sweet that she never considered that her ‘Boggy’ might be frightening. From the moment they had met, she offered him the same amount of respect she gave to everyone, from the lowest busboy to the highest corporate tycoon. She never thought of looking away because she had nothing to hide, nothing she needed to keep from him or any other. No shame or guilt colored her conscious, so she could smile into his soul without fear. She never considered that he could wreck her family’s plans with a word or that he could make her life hell just because it amused him. Certainly she knew, cerebrally, that he and all those of his ilk possessed such power, but having never experienced it she had the luxury of giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. And in turn, the world fell at her feet.

The reporter woman was different. When she looked at him it was thoughtfully, as if she was assessing a great work of art, or choosing the correct wine for a banquet. It was obvious that she knew his history, hawkish business dealings, powerful connections and all. There was just enough challenge in her stance - and her eyes - to prove that she was also aware of the risk that she took, that it was very possible he might take her action as arrogance and turn her right back over to Brutus. But she looked anyways, examining his face and recognizing the flaws that Caroline saw beyond; the scars on his chin, the sharp jut of his cheekbones, the brows that could not be contained no matter how well manicured. ‘Mari’ looked at him with a reporter’s eyes, and saw him in context. And she met his eyes, not out of bravado or innocence, but as one equal to another. 

The only other person who looked at him like that was his mother. He saw the same steel reflected in Mari’s eyes. There was a wall of iron within her, her eyes hiding her inner mind, but he sensed no petty corporate plotting behind the wall. Dull-eyed corporate hounds ready at an instant to back-stab whoever got in their way had no will of steel - their eyes darted and jerked away when one challenged their defenses. This woman held part of herself back because her mind was hers and no one had the right to take that from her.

Blue eyes met brown, and the moment hung, each considering the other, until she finally turned away. Bog nearly started, as if being freed from the pressure of the reporter’s eyes allowed him to breath again.

“It think I understand more about the both of you, now. It was the right choice to come all the way out here.”

And just like that, the moment was gone, and it was back to business. Bog came back to himself, and tugged the cuffs of his jacket back over his thin wrists, a habit born from school days and uniforms that never quite fit, ending the conversation more for his benefit than hers.

“Well, Caroline seems to trust you, Miss. Dawkins, so you may have the run of the place. My assistant, Stephan, will find time in my schedule for you. Theo will oversee your article. Please direct any general questions you have to him.” He nodded to two of his staff, then said, “Now, I have work to get to. It was...interesting to meet you, Miss. Dawkins.”

He felt her eyes bore into his back as he left, and had to remind himself to neither slow his stride nor glance back at the strange woman who had come into his life. Somehow she made him feel exposed and vulnerable, despite the host of bodyguards that followed him into the hotel. What kind of woman could _do_ that?

\-------------------------------------- 

Marianne watched Bog leave, but he would have been disappointed to find her carefully concocted smile back in full force as she turned to his staffers.

The problem was that she couldn’t tell who was who. One was Theo, one was Stephan, and the two couldn’t be more different. It was easy to assume the bullish woman in the slightly ill-fitting suit was the reporter-eating PR agent, and that Stephan was the tiny assistant, cowed by the force that was the Bog King. At the same time, looks could be deceiving, and everything about the two seemed subtly _off_. Either way, she had to convince these professionals before she would even get a chance at cracking their master. Though she had carefully dropped her act before Bog, giving away enough of herself to intrigue him (at least, she told herself that, trying to ignore the effect his mere presence had upon her), she was back to full reporter when she approached them.

Which is why it was a bit of a surprise when the first thing the little one said was,

“Did Griselda send you to help?”

\-----------------------

“ _What?!_ ” All thoughts of character fled Marianne’s head, and in her earpiece Sunny and Dawn sprung into action. 

“Stall!” Dawn yelled, as the two turned from monitoring Bog’s movements and hurriedly started looking for any information Griselda had sent regarding the assistants. 

“She’s a brilliant woman, you know.” The little one said, seemingly having missed Marianne’s outburst. “We would never have considered sending a reporter to hand his force.”

“Force his hand, Theo.” The bigger one - who must have been Stephan - said, then turned to thankfully explain. “We’ll pay you another commission on top of Mrs. King’s if you help us with this wedding.” 

Marianne didn’t have to fake confusion. “What do you mean ‘help’?”

Steph and Theo shared a look. 

“You know, to keep him on schedule.” said Steph.

“Or else he’ll skip out on everything we’ve planned!”

“Um…” Helplessly lost, panic coming from her earpiece, Marianne looked between the two. “Can you tell me, clearly, what you mean?”

\-------------------

Ten minutes later, comfortably seated in one of the many meeting nooks the hotel had on hand, Marianne’s blood pressure was beginning to stabilize. Theo, who turned out to be Bog’s head of PR, was more than happy to explain all of the problems the team was having with the wedding. Specifically, the problems they had with their boss, the groom.

Presumably, the only reason he felt so comfortable talking to an outsider - a reporter - was because Steph or one of the million bodyguards Bog employed could easily pummel her into the ground should any of this get out to the press. But at the moment, Steph was simply nodding along to the animated little man.

“You have to understand that Mr. King just doesn’t stop working. Ever.” Theo was explaining. “He hasn’t taken a vacation in ten years. Since before he even became CEO. Everything in his life is work.”

“We have three other secretaries, working in shifts, so someone is always available, even when he’s working at two in the morning.” Steph added, glowering into her coffee. There were deep bags under her eyes, and Marianne couldn’t help but suspect that Steph slept almost as little as Bog...but without the apparent enjoyment of it.

“Right. He’d run us all frayed if he didn’t employ double the support staff he’d need if he ever - y’know - _slept_.”

Trying to keep up the reporter facade, Marianne asked, “And things have changed since he’s met Caroline?”

Steph snorted. “Right.” 

But Theo smacked her arm and said, “Of course things have changed! Mr. King takes plenty of time for her. But that just means he’s working double in the time he has away!”

“This is all very interesting, but what do want me to do to help?” Marianne asked, still confused.

“Just being here is great!” Theo said. “That’s already helping a bunch!” His wiry little face burst into a bright smile, showcasing brilliantly white but crooked teeth.

Steph rolled her eyes and explained, “With the press watching, Mr. King will be less likely to skip out on all the events we have planned. That probably means he won’t sleep for the entire time he’s here on ‘holiday’, but he’ll actually go to breakfast and the dances.”

“And all the other things!” Theo began listing on his fingers. “The evening dinner, the movie theater we rented, the meeting with the mayor, the trip to Caroline’s women’s clinic, visiting the sights, visiting the cathedral, stopping by the shop and warehouse, the boat tour…” 

“But the important thing is the honeymoon.” Steph continued, easily speaking over her companion. “We have everything planned, and it will be quite romantic. Everything we could find in the marriage magazines and on the internet for a perfect getaway.”

Theo seemed to realize no-one was listening to his itinerary, and caught back up to the thread of conversation just in time to interject - 

“But he probably won’t go.” He turned wide, pleading eyes to Marianne. “Please. We’ll pay you anything. Just convince him to take a break.”

Marianne sat back, her face carefully neutral, trying to ignore the argument that had started in her headset between Sunny and Dawn. 

“While I appreciate the offer, and the information, I’m not sure what I can do for you. Why would Mr. King ever listen to me, when he hasn’t listened to you?”

Another glance between the two assistants, and Steph sighed.

“Because you are an outsider. No matter how much we tell Mr. King that we have everything under control, he always wants to be here, overseeing his ‘army’. Maybe he’ll believe you, if you say that other companies are run differently.”

“But as it is, he’s running himself into an early grave." Theo continued. "A honeymoon is the only vacation he’ll accept, because it’s for Caroline, not just himself. We’ll do everything we can to work you into his schedule, but you _have_ to remind him that everyone expects him to go on vacation.” 

“...and if I don’t accept? Even if this is a paid piece, I do have journalistic integrity to uphold…”

Steph groaned. “See? I told you, Thang, she wouldn’t go for it.”

Theo pouted slightly, but nodded. “We won’t do anything to sabotage you, Ms. Dawkins. You’ll still get to see Mr. King. But think about it, please? If you can think of any way to help us, we would really appreciate it. It might literally be a matter of life and death.”

He pulled a slightly crumpled business card from his wallet, explaining “Here’s Steph and I’s number. Call any time you want, someone is always on staff. As soon as possible, we’ll contact you with the details of your first interview.” Quickly Marianne gave him one of her own cards, matching the identity she’d stolen. “And again, thanks for any help you can give. We really do appreciate what you’re doing.”

Steph nodded. “Even if you don’t know you’re doing it.”

Mutely, Marianne watched as the two excused themselves, the crumpled card in her hand the only distraction as she stared after the two assistant’s backs. She had expected many things from the meeting, the worst of which would have been being exposed and barred from seeing Bog. She had not expected to be taken into the fold immediately. She certainly hadn’t expected to be asked to do the exact _opposite_ of what she had been hired for.

\----------------------------

Marianne groaned and thumped head-first onto the hotel bed. 

“Sunny, tell me you’ve got something that doesn’t make me feel like a proto-murderer if we do this job.”

“Er...no such luck. But I do have some information on Steph and Theo.”

“Beyond Bog’s stellar ability to put the right person in the right place?”

Sunny’s brow creased, and he looked back to his monitors. Despite needing to fit his whole computer setup into a single piece of luggage, and needing to be able to move it all at a minute’s notice, he had managed to cram four screens and a mini-supercomputer onto the hotel’s desk. It all packaged back up into a very professional looking jeweler's suitcase, monitors cushioned in foam and easily stackable while the CPU was perfectly square with a hidden power cord and built-in surge-protector. Getting it through the airport always cost a pretty penny, but Marianne had found the expense worth the money every time. Without Sunny’s abilities to break into their client’s social networks their job would have been ten times more difficult. And a master needed his tools. 

Those tools currently were displaying Theo’s Facebook profile, along with half a dozen other websites the PR guru oversaw. 

“Well, they’re definitely good at their jobs, but I’m not sure what exactly you mean.”

“You didn’t notice?” Dawn asked, walking through the door with a dangerously heavy looking shopping bag. “Mr. Theodore had cochlear implants. No wonder Bog’s so hard to pin down...his PR guy can just turn off his ears anytime the questions get too intense.”

“And his secretary is physically intimidating enough that she might actually be able to stand up to the man.” Marianne added, then swore at her sister, “Dawn, _what_ have you gone and bought?”

The younger Summers' sister beamed and held up her purchase. “A camera! You said I could be your photographer!” 

Both Sunny and Marianne gulped at the shining black monstrosity Dawn seemed so proud of.

“Do I want to know how much that cost?” Marianne asked.

“Oh, don’t worry about the price. Someone like Caroline or Theo would notice if we were using sub-par cameras. This is part of my disguise!” She beamed, and Marianne turned her face to bury it in a pillow. 

“The camera we have isn’t good enough?” she heard Sunny ask.

“Of course not. That’s a spy camera. This one is for completely, 100% legal paparazzi stalking! Now, help me come up with a character! Should I be a broody, poetic artist?” She discarded the camera on the floor, ignoring Sunny’s wince at the danger, and dove into their costume closet. “Or a bright foil to Miss Dark-and-Purple? Or maybe a fairy princess from - “

“ _Or_ you could be a rich girl playing at having a job and constantly blowing her budget.” Marianne said, yanking a half-dozen costumes from her sister’s arms and replacing them with a creamy yellow sun-dress. 

Dawn pouted. “But Mari, that’s what I always do. Can’t I be something different for once?”

“Act different out of character, and maybe I’ll give you a better role next time.”

“Awwww, Mari.”

Sunny turned back to his computers, letting the sister’s bickering wash over him as he returned to research. By now it was familiar background noise, and though he would never admit it, he was hiding a smile as they all relaxed into their roles.

\--------------------------

“So what do you think of Miss. Dawkins?” Bog asked when Theo - Thang within company correspondences - when he appeared at the tiny corporate meeting space Bog had somehow managed to rent behind Steph’s back.

“Mmm.” The little man considered, sneakily edging a carry-out lunch-plate onto Bog’s rented desk and hoping the smell would be enough to convince his boss to eat. Ostensibly he was bringing lunch for Steph - or Stuff - and the other members of the traveling staff. “She’s...cagey. I think she’s smarter than she lets on.” 

“I would expect nothing less from a reporter.” Bog said, trying to place the enigma of the reporter into a familiar box. “I’m sure she’s using this as an opportunity to find a scandal.” After all, that was what all the rest tended to do.

Thang pouted. “But there aren’t any scandals to find! You’re too good, Mr. King!”

Bog waved a hand dismissively, trying to get the memory of those bright eyes out of his mind. “I’m sure she’ll invent one, then. Reporters are all the same.” He paused, trying to ignore the niggling doubt that he was running away. “Put her off as long as you can.”

Stuff and Thang shared a look. Most of Thang’s job came down to lightly pushing Bog into actually speaking to anyone outside the office, and hiding Bog’s general disdain for social niceties as best he could. Getting Bog to talk to a reporter that might actually be equal to him in wits was a dream come true, and one that was rapidly fading in the face of the King's persistent habits.

“Caroline has already set up and interview.” Stuff said lightly.

Bog’s expression swiftly shifted from one of irritation to worry. “Did she? Doesn’t she know the risk? If this Dawkins is as smart as Theo thinks...”

“Come on sir, Mrs. Clarkson loves the press. She lives in front of the camera.” Thang said.

“Still. When is this? Who is assisting? Is Penny going to be there? What about - “

“Morning after next, and she’s going alone. Really, Mr. King, your fiance can handle herself!” Stuff teased, gesturing with her chopsticks as she spoke. “Everyone underestimates her. She’ll be fine.”

Bog settled back into his chair, fingers drumming on the fake mahogany, thinking back to the challenge in Mari’s eyes and the strange expression on her face as she watched the younger woman leave. Caroline was a bright woman, but…

“I don’t think this reporter underestimates anyone. Send Fang to monitor them whenever they're together.”


	6. The Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heartbreakers set up their surveillance operation and listen in on a unique dinner-date.

The Heartbreakers monitored the happy couple throughout the next day, Marianne playing nice and only occasionally drifting into Bog’s line of vision, just enough to remind him that she was there. 

Of course Sunny had hacked into the hotel’s cameras, and several of the city cams as well. No audio, which was a pity, but the three Breakers watched as the lean man caught a black limo to a small rental office, only to be trailed shortly thereafter by half a dozen staff carting briefcases and haggard expressions. An unsecured connection on one of the aid’s phones allowed them to get glimpses of Bog and the rest hard at work, the taps of keyboards deafening the cell-phone’s audio, the only thing louder Bog’s authoritative orders. With the muted colors most of the staff wore, and the way they bunched and skittered around their master, Marianne was reminded of mice, or ants, some kind of tiny forest creature that scurried, little eyes always focused upon their single objective, terrified of the world yet intend upon their goal.

Whether Bog was the terror or the prize was hard to tell. 

In the meantime, Caroline fluttered like an exotic butterfly, coming to rest at boutiques and dressmakers, returning to the hotel for lunch then disappearing in a whirl of skirts to visit the beach and walk along the boulevard, constantly stopping for selfies with enthusiastic tourists and locals who recognized the millionaire heiress. Her sunny smile never waned even as she was stopped once, twice, half a dozen times in as many blocks. Behind her bodyguards grimaced and rolled their eyes, but followed along as if this was nothing new, and her assistant gracefully accepted bags and cellphones to allow her mistress the best possible shot.

In comparison, when Bog stalked home, late to an afternoon meeting with a supplier, his limo brought more attention than he did. The tourists looked past him as he jogged down the stairs to the car, searching for the actual celebrity behind what must have been a bodyguard or doorman. There were confused looks and whispers as people tried to figure out who the man could possibly be - and perhaps it wasn’t a surprise, because the converted apartment-office was hardly in the center of town, nor did it look like the kind of place a man with taste would frequent. 

Marianne suspected Bog had chosen the location for that very reason, and she was half-right. More important to Bog was the lack of other people in his pay bracket. Certainly he was gracious enough when he finally appeared for his dinner with his supplier, but it was clear within a few minutes of observation that he was far more interested in Mr. Farie’s directors and their knowledge of the flower business in Kenya. Mr. Farie, a pale Dutchman whose puffy complexion matched that of his boutonniere, watched helplessly as Bog grilled a Mr. Ubuntu on seasonal conditions, cornered a Ms. Korir on water-usage, and engaged a Dr. Athiambo for a good 30 minutes on the intricacies of the flower company’s newest products.

Marianne, hidden behind a planter and sipping a ludicrously expensive cocktail while she stretched her ears as far as they could go, tried not to crack a smile as the reflected image of Mr. Farie’s helpless confusion at his meeting being completely diverted.The man must have hoped that the Bog King’s wit would be dulled by the upcoming nuptials. Nothing could be further from the case, proven when Caroline appeared, flushed from her daily exercise but perfectly made up, and proceeded to ask the same prying questions the mogul had earlier deflected, sweetened by her wide-eyed sincerity. Mr. Farie melted under her smiles, and Bog doubled down on his inquiries. The flower exporter never had a chance.

It hurt to watch how in-sync the two were, not only because it deepened Marianne’s suspicion that the couple was a true love match, but also because it reminded her of her own history. There was a time when she had fit just as easily under a man’s arm, looked at him with those same, sweet eyes, and had believed the whole world fell from a single word from his mouth. 

But Bog loved Caroline back, and didn’t speak over her, or ignore her, or catch Mr. Farie’s eyes over the table and share condescending smiles at Caroline’s apparent interest in her fiance’s business. There was no moment, during the entire two hour meeting, at which Bog seemed irritated at Caroline’s presence, nor any moment when she seemed frustrated with him. Neither spoke directly to the other for most of the dinner, apparently not needing the acknowledgement of the other at all, both confident in their abilities and sliding into their roles like cream into coffee. Both were better since the other was there, neither needed the other to function.

Frankly, Marianne was green with envy. How could anyone be so nice and yet earn the respect of everyone at the table? Caroline was everything that Marianne had trained herself for years to be, yet did it as naturally as breathing. And Bog sat comfortable in his authority, in his control of the meeting, yet was content to show his lack of knowledge and allow others to correct and inform him, using the meeting not as a way to buff his own ego or humiliate his guest, but instead for genuine information. Even Mr. Farie, flustered though he was, seemed to respect Bog by the end of the meeting. When the other man left the table, surrounded by his excitedly chattering VPs, he seemed not just content with the deal he’d struck, but genuinely excited by the challenges that Bog had set for him. His stiff body developed a spring in his step, and he engaged animatedly with the staff he had earlier been overwhelmed by.

“Have we impressed the spy?”

Marianne jumped, and turned to find herself face to face with Bog. 

He had pushed aside the greenery hiding her and sat, arm resting on his chair back, glowering at her. But behind him Caroline was finishing her dinner, and choking back giggles. 

Certainly Marianne’s face was something to giggle at, frozen between blank-faced horror and an attempt to pull herself back into professionalism.

“Oh, stop spooking her, Boggy!”

And then the man cracked a smile, smirking down at her, and Marianne had the sudden urge to belt him across the face for it. He had _known_ she’d been there the whole time! And had given no indication, even while discussing the intricacies of his company’s business.

“Stop looking so frightened, girl.” He said, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Come and join us!” Caroline added, nudging a chair open with her foot.

“I shouldn’t…” She started, but the other woman quickly interrupted.

“These croissants aren’t going to eat themselves! Have some.”

“Think of it as a consultancy session. With the rolls as payment.” Then Bog added, “Or I can have you thrown out for espionage.”

Quickly Marianne grabbed her drink and took the recently vacated seat. From elsewhere Theo hurried up, but Bog waved him away, ignoring the look of shock on the PR agent’s face.

“So you managed to sneak into one of the most prestigious restaurants in this building, and to find a table close enough to overhear a highly classified business meeting. You certainly have proved your skills as a reporter.” Bog began.

“It wasn’t that difficult.” Marianne said airily, though she and Sunny had carefully planned out the surveillance mission.

“Really? My head of security would be fascinated by how you managed it.” He smiled again, all teeth this time, and Caroline looked between the two, reporter and mogul, squaring off.

“You mustn’t have noticed the waiters, then.”

“Oh? I would have expected the _Goldeon_ ’s staff to be above bribery.”

“That isn’t what I mean. My table was reserved for a couple. Of which the man never showed up.”

Bog looked blank, while Caroline immediately understood.

“That’s clever!” The other woman said, then explained to Bog, “She pretended she’d been stood up.”

“Look at the door enough, order increasingly alcoholic drinks, glower at my phone...the waiters were shooting me sympathetic looks all night.” Marianne said, with quite a bit of satisfaction. “But you shouldn’t fire your security chief: I only arrived after your meeting started, after the important business was done.”

“Really. You didn’t consider the last two hours ‘important’?”

“For me, yes. I’m amazed at how well you two work together. But Mr...Farie, was it? Was fuming when I got here, so I assume you reprimanded him on something.”

Caroline squeaked. “Boggy, you said you wouldn’t bring up the roses!”

Bog glowered, not at Caroline - never at Caroline - but at his wine glass. “They were rotting on the stem. A whole week’s supply, wasted, and no warning or a hint of accountability.”

“Wasted...that would have been because of the water main break in January?”

Bog blinked and shot a glance at Marianne.

“Just because I came after the main event doesn’t mean I wasn’t listening.” She said. “That was why you were so intent upon Ms. Kipir’s supply-lines. Water scarcity is only going to become more of a problem in Africa, and only through working with the community and updating the irrigation system will Farie Flowers be able to prevent worse disasters.”

Caroline’s perfectly sculpted brows rose. “You got all of that from Bog’s conversation?”

Marianne shrugged. “It’s just good business sense. I’m sure the only reason Mr. Farie was hesitating, hiding the faults in his system, was because his investors would scream if he spent the necessary capital to fix the problem. Now, because of your pressure, he can do what all of his employees want, and tell his investors it was to save the contract he has with your company.”

“That is a very...astute observation.” Bog said, thoughtfully. 

“I am a _merger_ correspondent in my real life.” Marianne threw back. “Businesses are much easier to understand than people.”

“Yet you write a marriage column.” 

“That’s - “ she paused, realizing suddenly that she had let her own feelings get in the way of the character she was playing. And now she would have to stick with it, for Bog would notice if she tried to backpedal. “That’s because most marriages are motivated by the same things that motivate businesses.” 

Caroline pouted. “What a horrid thing to think!”

But Bog looked intrigued. “How so?”

Marianne shrugged, slipping into a lecture that had her sister and Sunny groaning into the microphone, they had heard it so often.

“A marriage is a contract, just like a merger is. You begin with two separate entities, then create an amalgamation of the two. Something is always lost, and the things that are gained have to be equal to what both parties are giving up. In humans that is freedom, independence, the ability to only care about yourself. Businesses give up ideas, staff, and independence as well. Relationships, business or personal, constrain and restrict. But in exchange, one receives stability. Support.” She paused, realizing that both Bog and Caroline were staring at her. “Plus, it’s usually about money.”

Caroline’s expression wavered, her lip shaking as if she was about to cry. But then she finally forced a laugh instead and Bog relaxed beside her.

“Oh, how _like_ a business woman! You make it sound so rational! So _smart_! My chief analyst sound exactly the same.” Another laugh. “But she’s been married for five years and can’t stop bringing in baby pictures. How is that logical?”

Statistics jumped into Marianne’s mind, about biology and progeny and appropriate pride in one’s accomplishments. But she wasn’t here to argue with her charges. She was here to impress, and ideally not make enemies.

“I’m sure your analyst knows far more than I about the intricacies of love.” She said, and dropped her eyes back to her stolen plate. “I’m just a journalist.”

Caroline surged across the table, gathering up Marianne’s hands in her own.

“Oh, no! No one is ever a _just_! _Never_ let yourself think that, Mari! You are a wonderful journalist! I loved reading your column!”

“ _Shit, that means WE have to read it_.” Sunny hissed, and Dawn groaned and went about finding her old back-issues of Business Insider. 

Marianne, in the meantime, found herself staring straight into her rival’s wide, [caring] blue eyes, and tried not to flush like a schoolgirl at Caroline Clarkson’s attention. 

“I can’t wait for our interview tomorrow! We’ll go to this lovely little place I know, and I don’t want you to pull any punches, okay?”

“Uh...yeah. Sure.” Marianne stuttered, still lost in a sea of blue innocence. “I should...uh...go and prepare?”

Quickly she excused herself, barely noticing Bog’s amused laugh as she left, to flustered to think straight as she fled. 

Behind her Bog shook his head and turned back to his fiance. “Really, Caroline. You’ll make that poor woman fall in love with you.”

The heiress blinked. “Really? I was just telling the truth. She is amazing.”

\------------------------------

“You don’t need to say it.” Sunny said, as Marianne burst into the room and dove for the bed, burying her face in a pillow and groaning.

“I’ll say it for you, then." Dawn spun her chair. "It’ll feel like kicking a puppy if we break those two up. Like kicking a _corgi_ puppy. Then putting it through a paper shredder.”

“Dawn...I’m a little concerned about your metaphors.”

“I’ve been reading up on the mafia. Since that’s where the Kings got their start.” Dawn said with some pride.

“And what about Caroline?”

Both Sunny and Dawn looked at their boss and shrugged, Sunny saying,

“I haven’t really looked into her business. Its cosmetics, right?”

“Right! Clarkson Cosmetics, the premier organic, fair-trade cosmetics brand.” Dawn said. “I miss being able to buy it. You always feel so good opening one of their packages. Like you’re helping kids in 3rd world countries and stuff.”

Marianne groaned into the pillow again.

“Right. I’m going to need more than just the feel-good stuff if I’m taking an interview tomorrow. Who are her investors? What about her family companies? We know the King’s dark history - and how much they’ve tried to distance themselves from it - but we also need to know the Clarksons.”

Dawn nibbled her lip. “Do you really think Caroline is capable of being mean?”

Marianne considered, minds eyes playing over the wide eyes and genuine smile. “...no. But we all have history, and baggage. Maybe the reason she’s so good is because her family is terrible.”

"We can only hope." Sunny muttered, looking at the endless data on perfect, perfect Caroline and the love-sick Bog. Something needed to give, if they had any hope at all of fulfilling their mission.


	7. The Theory of Perfection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne goes on her first date...with the wrong target. And Caroline explains her philosophy on life: Be Perfect at Everything~

Caroline Clarkson’s breakfast was a smoothie, brought by her personal assistant Penny to her door at 5 am. Penny always announced herself with a precise three-tap knock, and Caroline was always awake and there to open the door.

She and Bog slept in separate rooms, connected by a joint door. It was Bog’s idea, and while Caroline had tried to talk him out of it, the man cared too deeply for her wellbeing to be swayed. Still, before she met her trainer for her morning run, Caroline peeked into Bog’s suit. His computer was still running, lighting the walls with its fluorescent glow, and the man himself was passed out on the bed, not having even bothered to get under the covers.

Caroline sighed fondly at her fiance and found an extra blanket to throw over him, moving as silently as she could. His morning would start two hours later, assuming there wasn’t some business emergency that would drag him from his bed. She knew, from the light beneath the door and the distant sound of typing, that he had been up till three, at least, and she hoped nothing would wake him from his much-needed slumber.

She kissed his forehead and texted room-service to bring him his favorite coffee at seven, then slipped back into her rooms to go over the day’s itinerary and prep for her interview. She genuinely did like Mari, and was committed to giving the best answers she could give about her relationship and business. Plus, the review with Penny served as an update on her various holdings and how well they were doing in the market. While she was not as involved with her company as Bog, she still loved hearing about her people and the work they were doing, and as CEO it was her duty to help them as best she could.

Barbara, her trainer, arrived at 5.30, and they chatted as they went through stretches in the private gym for the wedding party. At six her one of her bodyguards, Spencer, appeared in his own running outfit. He would ensure that no matter where their run took them, Caroline would be safe.

Ready to face the world, in a cute exercise outfit and just a hint of makeup for any lurking paparazzi, Caroline set off into the day.

\-------------------------- 

Marianne woke up at seven thirty to the smell of store-brand instant coffee and piercing Monaco sunlight coming through the window that Dawn had just thrown open. 

“Christ, Dawn! Was that really necessary?”

The younger Summers sister beamed brightly. “The early bird catches the worm, sister dearest!” Then she ducked as Marianne threw a pillow at her. “Hey! Sunny’s been up for hours!”

“Sunny never went to sleep.” Came a grumpy voice from the desk.

Marianne wiped sleep from her eyes and glanced over at Sunny. “You really didn’t need to stay up all night.”

Sunny groaned and stretched away from his monitor, also wiping his eyes. Coffee cups were stacked all around the desk.”I was watching Bog, and the time got away from me. Stephan wasn’t kidding when she said he never sleeps. He was up until four, doing who-knows-what for work.”

Marianne gratefully accepted a cup of coffee and went to stand beside Sunny. Her rumpled pajamas were nothing new to the younger man - one of the benefits of basically growing up together. Both had seen the other in significantly less, and it was about as much of a turn on as one could expect from seeing one’s sibling buck naked. Sunny might blush like a buffoon at a hint of Dawn’s collarbone, but Marianne half-dressed and groggy was nothing new.

“Did that irritate Caroline?”

“Not a bit. They have separate rooms.” 

“That’s…” Marianne started.

“- unfortunately nothing.” Dawn said. “Apparently it’s the norm when they stay together - specifically because Bog stays up so late. They might spin it as being chaste to the in-laws, but really it’s to let poor Caroline get some sleep while Boggy is up all hours of the night.”

Marianne blinked slowly, then shot a look to her sister. “Boggy?”

“It’s what Caroline calls him.” She shot back defensively. “And it fits, doesn’t it?”

“Uh...sure. Just don’t let him catch you using it. Pretty sure only Caroline could get away with that.”

Sunny nodded emphatically, only partially because he envied Bog for getting a nickname from Dawn. The image of the terrifying tycoon was starting to fade from the hacker’s mind - if only because it was hard to keep the image when one stared at the man working for six hours - but no one with that face could really have an “ee” on the end of their name.

“Anyways, Caroline had been up for two hours, and Bog for half an hour.” Sunny said.

“Do I need to catch them at breakfast?”

He shook his head. “Bog had breakfast in his room, Caroline had a smoothie and will eat with you at nine. At least, I assume she will. You’re meeting at a coffee shop in the city.”

Marianne considered. “Okay. That means I can sleep for another half hour. Bye~”

And she dove back under the covers and placed a pillow over her head as the two morning people acted as if they _enjoyed_ the sunlight.

\-------------------------- 

Marianne, when she did eventually wake up, chose her outfit just as carefully as if she had been meeting Bog. Sensible pantsuit, light colored top, jacket that could be tucked under and arm so that she wouldn’t look sweaty in the balmy Monaco weather. Her makeup was chosen even more carefully. Given that Caroline owned a cosmetics company, simply matching the makeup to Marianne’s character was not good enough. They also had to match the brand to said character, adding a subtly that their victim likely wouldn’t notice consciously, but would make a subconscious impression. 

That meant Dawn’s favorite cosmetics, Caroline’s own and similar brands, were out. Not that they used them often, pricey as they were, but Dawn was loath to use the dollar-store cosmetics that Marianne often defaulted to. Instead they chose something simple but decent quality, slightly above a journalist’s budget, the kind of thing the real Mrs. Dawkins would wear to make a good impression. But they kept it simple, makeup light enough to match Marianne’s independent persona, with the added benefit that it wouldn’t melt in the Monaco heat. The dark eye-shadow was a must, just enough of a unique flare that Caroline would remember Mari for years to come.

Marianne took the shuttle into the city-center, arriving twenty minutes early to the cafe and seeing with irritation a black limousine already parked outside. Even a fake journalist knew you shouldn’t keep a subject waiting. And Marianne’s competitive spirit flared at the idea that she had lost something as simple as the who-arrived-first game.

Luckily Caroline was just getting out of the car as Marianne jogged up. The heiress greeted her with a shining smile, as if Marianne alone was the answer to all her troubles, and sent the limo off with a flick of her perfectly manicured nails.

“I’m not late, am I?” Marianne asked, though she had timed every second of her approach before-hand.

“Oh, no! I just finished my morning meeting early. I know your type like to arrive early to scope the place out, but then you might have been forced to buy a coffee, and this must be my treat!” She linked her arm with Marianne's and lead the way through the door. “This is my favorite cafe in the whole city. You are going to love the scones!”

Bemused and slightly envious of Caroline’s cheerful morning demeanor, Marianne let her host pull her to the front of the cafe and order for both of them. Apparently the scones were to die for and the coffee was superb, but that was not what Marianne noticed as they waited in the short line. The whole place was airy and light, the exact opposite of what Marianne liked in a cafe, and the prices clearly kept most of the customers at bay - that or Caroline had chosen their timing exceptionally well to avoid the rush. Both were likely.

But they had barely reached the counter when a manager appeared, beaming and talking animatedly in French, to which Caroline replied with an equal wide smile. Then nothing could be done but give Caroline and her guest the best table in the house, and for the chef herself to appear with the newest additions to the menu, while the barista brought the coffee directly to their table. Apparently the barista was new, for he did not appear to recognize Caroline, but was smart enough to notice the whole cafe bowing over themselves for “their favorite customer”.

It was ten minutes before the commotion was done and the manager had hustled everyone off to their stations to give Caroline her privacy. 

“My family has been coming here for twenty years.” Caroline gave in way of explanation, when they were finally alone and sipping their admittedly excellent coffee. “My sister insists on drinking only their brand, made here in Monaco. She alone could probably keep this place in business, she drinks so much.”

“But you are their favorite customer?” Marianne asked, not directly trying to call anyone out on a lie.

“They see me much more often. She hardly ever has time to leave the states.” Caroline shook her head, almost pityingly. “I make sure to stop by every time I’m here, just to convey the regards of my whole family.”

Marianne sipped her coffee, considering the woman in front of her. Caroline was once again in a sundress, this time a light lime green accented with blue jewelry made of opal and jade. Her smile was bright as her looks, and her makeup and hair were immaculate even after being given a broad hug from the manager. 

There was a time in her life when Marianne would have killed to be like Caroline. But now she could only appreciate it from afar. 

“Do you want my elevator speech?” Caroline began with as she placed her fork down in the etiquette-ly perfect position. 

Marianne smiled and shook her head. “Your assistant sent ahead plenty of information on that. I know all about your age and business. This is really to get to know you.”

Caroline tossed her hair and smiled mischievously. “Some would say the most important thing about a woman is her age.”

“Some people are idiots.”

That got a laugh, full but somehow not making Caroline look like a fool, a problem Marianne always had. 

“So what do you really want to know?”

“Let’s start with the obvious. How did you and Bog meet?”

Caroline’s eyes went misty as she remembered. “We’ve always been in the same circles, I suppose, he in England, I in the states. But I really met him at a charity ball two years ago. ‘Save the Everglades’, I think it was. A costume ball, everyone supposed to be swamp-themed. I was wearing the silliest thing - trying my best to look like a frog, with big coke-bottle glasses and green freckles on my cheeks, my dresses half-tattered.

“It was a long night, and I tried to dance with everyone, men and women alike, and then I saw him. 

“He was standing in a corner, no one talking to him, glowering at the world. His costume was some kind of stick-insect, but it was marvelous, segmented to look like armor, the detail amazing. It seemed a shame to go to all that work, and never take such a costume on the dance floor.”

Caroline giggled, shaking her head at her own silliness.

“It turned out, he was the only name left off of my dance card, so I had to talk to him. But that was an excuse, really. He seemed so interesting, so different, unlike anyone I had met before. And he was so surprised that I requested a dance. And then it was like magic, dancing around the room until the sun rose while we talked about our businesses and families, skipping right over the silly small talk and on to the more interesting things.

“It was like a fairy-tale. Everything just seemed to click. Of all the men in the room, he was the first to really respect me, to value my opinions and ask interesting questions. And I was the only one who approached him, who wanted to learn about his thoughts and ideas, and wasn’t frightened away by his looks or costume. 

“And after that, everything seemed to fall into place. We saw each other regularly, meeting up whenever we were in the same city at the same time, gradually moving up to sharing an apartment in London, and then talking about marriage. Both our families were ecstatic, of course. Griselda is so sweet, you know?” Marianne tried not to choke on her coffee. “And we have business connections as well, though nothing close enough to make a trust-department nervous. It just seemed so...perfect. Like destiny, almost. For two years, nothing at all has come in our way.” 

And Caroline smiled with such warmth that Marianne fled to her notebook - nevermind that Sunny was recording every moment of the interview - or else die of sunstroke from the light of her smile. Could nothing go wrong for this woman?

“Why do you think you and Bog are a good match?” The question sounded stupid as it rolled off Marianne’s tongue, but she said it anyways.

Caroline considered. “I think...we have the same philosophy on life. It might not seem that way on the outside - he acts so different from me! - but on the inside we run on the same core idea.”

“And that idea is?”

“We must be Perfect.” Quickly Caroline held up a hand, as if she expected incredulity. “Let me explain.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the saying “money is power” and “power corrupts”. You only have to look to the news to see it - millionaires’ children crashing cars or overdosing, CEOs thrown in jail for tax evasion or money laundering, people losing everything to gambling or politics…not to mention stories of sweatshops and child-labor, wanton waste and destruction of the environment, money gone to corrupt governments and civil wars. All cruelty for the sake of profit. 

“Given that, it’s understandable that so many hate people like me. The paparazzi are always looking for a scandal, and there are temptations everywhere. Go to the party, drink just a bit more, take a little more for yourself...it’s all so easy.

“Being Perfect means training yourself out of that mindset. To not take the easy way, but instead the right way, every time, at every opportunity. Study hard, even if don’t need the grades to go to Harvard. Participate in sports, even if you have a personal trainer. Talk to every worker, even if you have managers. Be there. Be present. Even if it’s easier to ignore the world around you and float by on money and influence.

“It’s better for you, it’s better for your employees, and it’s better for the people around you. The benefits - the respect, the public image, the profits - that’s all secondary to the benefit you receive by being Perfect. And eventually you don’t have to think about it anymore. You just always make the right choice, every time, without fail.”

And she smiled, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, and Marianne was saved by her actor’s talents. The horror and anger she felt at the statement didn’t show and she didn’t scream _How fucking naive are you?!_ though in her earpiece Sunny muttered something similar.

Instead, she instructed her face to look slightly concerned and said, “That seems to be unsustainable in the long run.”

“Of course it is!” Caroline tittered. “No one can be perfect forever. But trying staves off the inevitable, and softens the blow when you do fall.”

“And Bog thinks the same?” 

“Yes, though he puts all his perfection into work.” She sighed. “I suppose it’s different for men. He needn’t worry about fashion, but obsesses over his company. I’ve found that by respecting your employees you can relax the reins a bit, but poor Boggy worries about everything, despite his excellent staff.”

“...right. Can I ask how you came to this philosophy?”

Caroline sipped her coffee for a moment, letting the sound of the cafe around them fill in the silence.

“It’s always been a part of my family ideals. My parents and my sister both do the same, though I don’t believe they’ve thought about it as much as I have. They just do what’s Right, as best they can. I suppose what’s different for me is that I’ve seen the opposite first hand, through my friends and especially through one of my cousins.”

“Can you tell me more?”

She thought, pretty brow creasing. “It’s not really my story to tell. But no one has heard from the girl for years...I suppose there’s no harm in it. Certainly it changed the way I looked at the world.”

The barista appeared again, with refills for their coffee and pastries ‘on the house’, two of which were the newest additions the chef had been so proud of. When he left Caroline started her story.

“When I was - oh - twelve or thirteen, I suppose, one of the branches of our family got into financial trouble. The details were vague - not the sort of thing you would discuss with a preteen girl, I guess, but the result was that the whole family was feeling the sting, and the branch that got us into this mess had a solution - a corporate buy-out of a promising competitor. 

“The problem was that the owner refused to sell. A third of the shares were tied up in a trust fund somewhere, leaving the owner with an easy majority, and my cousin’s family was hemorrhaging money trying to get enough shares for a majority.

“Which was where my cousin came in. He...he’s perfect too, but he only cares about the outside, what people can see, and never worries about following it up with the requisite moral character. Maybe that’s why his family got into the trouble in the first place. They’re all like that. Perfect on the outside, I mean. They're so easy to like, and the world falls over for them.

“My cousin believed that he could salvage the situation. He - at seventeen - came to the family and convinced them to give him a year to work. By then most of us had given up, my parents glad they had nothing to do with it, and the rest grasping at straws. No one thought he would succeed.

“But he did. In less than a year he had done what everyone thought impossible; He had the controlling shares of the company. Not by bargaining with the owner, not by forcing his hand, but by breaking the trust, something no one else had considered. He’d found the heiress - the owner’s daughter - and somehow convinced her to give up her claim.

“No one knows how he did it, and no one cared. He saved his branch’s fortune, and saved face for our entire family. He was a hero.

“But all I could think about was the girl. The heiress. She was some teenager, barely 16, just like me, really, and no one saw her after that year. She was just...gone. What ever Roland had done, he drove her out of our world, forever.” __

_“Oh my God.”_  
“Sunny, how did you miss that?!”  
“It must be someone different!” 

Marianne licked her lips, throat dry. “What did you say his name was, again?”

“Roland. Roland White.”

“Oiy, Cuz! Are you talking about me?”


	8. A Knife and a Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne Summers sees Roland for the first time in twelve years.

There are voices that send chills down the spine. Any decent horror monster should have a voice that terrifies. That perfect mix of melodious and sinister, screaming to the world that the speaker was someone to fear and respect.

But those are not the voices that truly paralyze, that shock you out of bed in the middle of the night, cold sweat and flickers in the corner of the eyes. No, those voices are far more unique. The high school math teacher, the uncle with the grasping hands, the creepy kid at the back of class. Those voices from nightmare were completely unique to every individual, and liable to send even the strongest will into abject terror.

Marianne had trained herself out of fear, trained herself into anger instead. For years she had pictured what might happen should she ever see him again, forced herself over the instinct to flee and on to the serious pummeling that he deserved. 

Her hand was already on the knife by the time Roland stopped speaking. Scenarios of death and destruction were flashing through her mind, and murder was high in her hopes, even as Dawn and Sunny begged into the microphone to _stop, reconsider, THINK Mari!_

In the end, what saved everyone was luck and Caroline.

Roland had appeared behind Marianne, and before she could turn to confront him, she was forced to watch Caroline’s face as he spoke.

Caroline didn’t hate anyone.

Caroline was kind, and loving, and looked for the best in everyone.

Caroline was better than Marianne in every way the world cared about.

Caroline was looking at her cousin as if he just beheaded her childhood teddy bear and hung it on the wall.

Silently, Marianne watched as the perfect Caroline ducked her head as if to wipe away a crumb from her lip, then raise it again with no hint of the utter horror that had graced her face a mere moment earlier. She smiled and only an actress could see the strength it took to force the welcome out.

“Roland. I didn’t think you were coming.”

“And miss my favorite cousin’s wedding? To my biggest client, as well? Now, now, kitten, I would never do that!”

_He wasn’t on the guest list!_ Sunny wailed from his computers, and Marianne knew in an instant that Roland had not been invited. Caroline had seen to it, and the bastard had shown up anyways.

“And who is this? You haven’t snuck in another girlfriend, have you? Bogo will be crushed when I tell him~”

He came around the table, and for the first time in twelve years, Marianne looked at Roland White. Through a fog she heard Caroline giving the introductions, a tension in her voice that Marianne had never heard before.

“Roland, this is Mari Dawkings, a journalist for the Insider. She is writing a piece for my wedding.”

But she couldn’t draw her eyes away from the man.

Twelve years, and he hadn’t changed. He still had that perfect, sunny smile. Still had shining gold hair, with a perfect curl above his handsome face. He carried himself like a prince, one hand going to rest on Caroline’s chair, effortlessly possessing the whole space around him, forcing everyone else to dodge around him, quick apologies falling from their lips even as he stood in the middle of a main aisle. His clothes were perfectly tailored, accentuating his excellent physique, broad shoulders and shirt unbuttoned beneath a loose green tie. He had a jacket tucked under one arm, and a green college ring on one finger.

“A journo? Kitten, kitten, you don’t need to talk to someone like her. That’s what PR is for.”

He looked her up and down, green eyes taking in every curve, in a way that had once made Marianne melt. Now, of course, it made her want to jab in his eyes for the sake of all womankind. And yet part of her took refuge in the fact that he would hate what he saw, for she had built herself into someone who didn’t fall easy and who would fight for her independence. 

_Look what I’ve built_ , she didn’t scream. _Look who I’ve become. You can’t break me anymore._

And yet he did, with the simple line. “Well, you ain’t my type, but I could always make an exception.”

Caroline saw the horror that finally leaked out onto Marianne’s face, and felt guilty about taking some comfort in the fact that she was not the only woman who hated her cousin on sight. 

But in truth Marianne was stunned that Roland didn’t recognize her. It had been twelve years (four months, ten days, the date forever burned into her mind) since he’d seen her, angry and sobbing, and the woman before him looked nothing like the teenager he’d laughed at. Gone was the dyed-blond hair and the glittery makeup, gone was the white dresses and careful tan. Maybe that was the image that had stuck in his mind, the woman he had made her into, not the quiet girl he had first set his sights on.

And perversely, Marianne felt robbed. Here he was, her greatest enemy, and after twelve years she was ready for him. She had gone over the argument a million times in her head, come up with hundreds of insults that would tear him to ribbons, trained herself to fight if words were not enough…

And he didn’t recognize her. Her cover wasn’t blown, Caroline was still looking at her with those wide blue eyes, and there was nothing preventing her from continuing with the job. Nothing, except her own pride. Pride that she always said came from being a professional.

Sunny and Dawn were awed when she placed the knife down with a clink, stared back into Roland White’s eyes, and said politely.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”


	9. Fit for a Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caroline is rescued from her over-nice cousin by a rather unlikely prince...ess.

Caroline was familiar with crushes. As a young woman she experienced them frequently, falling head over heels for school basketball stars, actors and actresses from Serious Dramas, and of course the lead singer from _The ELFz_ , Eric Erickson. 

Crushes were things that could be managed, and she had done so all her life, relegated to the back of her mind and her secret CD collection, carefully hidden away and prevented from upsetting her perfect routine.

Bog was the first crush she had that she allowed herself to act on, the first man that had not completely fit into the rigorous checklist she and her sister had made as teens to protect themselves from cads, money-grubbers and paparazzi circuses. He was tall, and handsome, and mysterious, and just a little bit dangerous...but in a way that fit into her schedule. When he shared his favorite musical with her - the Fantasticks - she thought she understood why. He styled himself as The Bandit: dark and dangerous, with worldly knowledge and access to things she’d never dreamed of, but with everyone’s best interests at heart. And she, innocent and naive as she was, craved that freedom, and could recognize the urge within her to simply throw it all away and escape with him.

Of course, neither could do that, and the world they lived in demanded a certain structure. But they were just enough of an odd couple that she felt that rush when they were seen in public together, and her heart raced as they kissed, declaring that this, _this_ was her rebellion. She could choose who to love, and she had chosen so well.

She thought crushes would go away after she got engaged, and it was true that she hadn’t had one since meeting Bog. Her mind always turned to him when she was sad, and he brightened her day even when all the time they had together was a short kiss before work. 

But watching Mari stare down Roland, and Caroline felt her heart stutter in her chest. There was not a single other woman of their age that didn’t fall at Roland’s feet, yet the reporter looked straight in his eyes and acted as if he wasn’t worth her time.

“Who am I? Why I’m Roland White, CEO of Summerfield Stationary.”

“Isn’t that company planning on declaring bankruptcy?”

“Eh?” Roland’s beautiful green eyes blinked, and he looked questioningly at Caroline.

“Mari Dawkins is a _merger_ correspondent, Roland. She must have heard about the buy out from DFB.”

Marianne had heard nothing of the sort, but neither cousin noticed the flash of anger in her eyes.

“I’m here to write a piece on the wedding, and the effect it will have on the business community.” Mari explained, as if to a child. “Unfortunately, Caroline has little time available for interviews. So…”

Caroline nearly cheered at the _go away!_ that was unspoken but heavily implied.

But Roland pounced on every opportunity. “Oh, well Caroline might be busy, but I have plenty of time to spend on reporters. Why don’t you interview me instead? I’m sure I know more about the Clarkson and King brands than…”

“Thank you, Mr. White, but my time is limited as well. I would _love_ ,“ the tone said anything but, “to interview you at a later date. Perhaps your PR people could contact me with the appropriate details,” hearkening back to his earlier statement about PR taking care of interviews, “But for now I’m afraid you will have to wait.”

And she turned back to Caroline, tablet already out and pulling up the next question.

Roland looked to his cousin and the condescending smirk on his face set her teeth on edge. “Feisty one, isn’t she? Well, I can see when I’m not wanted.” And he ran fingers through his hair, smiling wide for the Paparazzi that followed him everywhere, and leaned over to Mari. “You’ll be _begging_ for that interview later, Buttercup. Just you wait.”

And maybe she would. Caroline had many, many childhood friends who had heeded her warnings at first, only to fall for Roland’s charm and charisma and wonder _'how ever could Caroline say such cruel things about their darling, really, it’s so unlike her'_...and so Caroline had stopped fighting against the tide and done nothing to urge other women away. They always seemed happy enough with the results. He was fun, rich, and never at risk for marriage. Perhaps it was Caroline’s own stuffiness that caused her to dislike her cousin.

But even as he said his goodbyes and invited himself to her and Bog’s dinner that night she caught sight of Marianne’s face, upon which was a look of complete loathing, and felt her own heart lighten. Here was a woman who saw straight through the lies and boyish good looks, and that alone might have gotten Caroline swooning. 

Add that to her perfect composure and impeccable taste in makeup, her quick wit and steadfast confidence, and Caroline found herself adding another person to her list of crushes. There were so many truly fascinating people in the world, separated and beyond her reach, cut off from her by rules of class and privilege and self-imposed order. 

She allowed herself time with such people, allowed herself to feel the rush of excitement upon seeing them, the pleasure of heated cheeks, the trance she fell into while listening to their stories. But that was all she allowed herself, and so she placed Marianne in the same category as all the others, of which the one unique exception was her Boggy.

And if there was a bite of longing she felt, as she answered hard questions about herself and her businesses and fell deeper into the reporter’s eyes, well, that was locked away in the secret part of her heart, along with all the other things that did not fit into Perfection. Longing, selfishness, anger...none of those were for her. 

And that was _fine_.

\--------------------------- 

As their interview concluded Caroline glanced out the window and a frown crossed her sunny face. Behind them, parked at the curb and idling in the summer heat, was an emerald green corvette, top rolled down, Roland White signing autographs from the front seat. The crowd which surged around the legendary playboy blocked the exit and left pedestrians struggling to walk or enter the cafe.

“He must be waiting to give me a lift.” Caroline said, considering what would happen to her schedule if she allowed Roland to abscond with her. He was not the sort of man who could move in a straight line, especially if there were pretty ladies to ogle.

“How...gracious.” Marianne said, brow raised to indicate her skepticism.

“I’m sure he will remind me of that.” Again a small frown crossed her face.

The look cut right through the numbness that had set in since first hearing Roland’s voice, and the part of Marianne that could still feel flared in anger. Caroline was too nice to turn down a ride, even if she didn’t want to go, especially in front of a group of people. It wouldn’t be “right".

But ‘right' could go screw itself.

“Caroline, can you accept that I'm not Perfect, and don't want to be?”

Caroline blinked in surprise at the bluntness of the question, but assured Marianne, “You don't need to be, dear. You're wonderful just the way you are.”

“But can you trust me anyways?”

The heiress smiled, the sun finally returning to her face. “Of course!”

The sweet naivety of the heiress might have made Marianne pause in any other situation, but right now she just wanted _out_ , with a side order of making Roland look like a fool, so she didn’t let herself hesitate.

“Follow me.” 

They were standing before the doors, Caroline having already made her goodbyes but still unnoticed by Roland thanks to the crowd. Marianne typed a code into her cell, one she had not thought she'd use pursuing Bog, but familiar from jobs in Shanghai and Myanmar. Sunny and Dawn would know what to do.

In the meantime, she caught Caroline’s hand and threaded their way through the crowd, not trying in the least to push through to the front. There were a few shoves and caught elbows, but half a minute later they emerged unscathed on the open pavements, where upon Marianne hooked her arm in Caroline’s and ambled along down the street. Easily Marianne brought up an impression of Dawn, bright and sunny as Caroline herself, and they became two girls on their lunch break, in a city full of others doing the same. No one gave them a second glance.

Marianne prompted Caroline on her favorite charity, and by the time Roland noticed they were halfway down the street chatting animatedly about schools in Nigeria.

“He’ll follow us.” Caroline said, glancing back at the suddenly dispersing crowd.

“Yes, but imagine how silly he's going to look doing it.” Marianne giggled, matching her sister's titter perfectly.

The car roared down the block, squealing to a stop right next to them, taking up a fire lane.

Roland managed to look shocked to see them, smiling in a parody of graciousness as he said, “You lovely ladies need a ride?”

Marianne flicked her hair and managed a far more realistic look of surprise, tinged with completely honest contempt. “Mr. White, you may have your cousin back when I’m done with her. Unless you truly wish to wait while we shop…”

“For pretty girls like you, I’m sure I could spare an hour or two. You two just run along and I’ll follow along right behind.” His smile was sincere, but his eyes were cold as he stared down the reporter, daring her to question his claim on his cousin.

Instead Marianne smiled sweetly and said, “Very well. Follow if you wish.” And then lead Caroline away from the curb, down a steep stair, and right into an open-air market.

Behind them Roland sputtered and Caroline found herself biting back a smile, even as the sudden influx of people and colors made her head spin. She loved markets, despite the quite reasonable worry of her bodyguards forcing her away from them. There was always so much to do and see, tinged with the thrill of danger and uncertainty of how to properly act like ‘one of the crowd’. And Roland was so rarely forced to give up something he wanted - just hearing the bitten-back curse on his lips gave her a thrill of completely inappropriate glee, even as she worried about losing sight of Mari as easily as Roland was losing sight of them.

But Marianne navigated them confidently through it all, slapping the hand of a pick-pocket, hiding a smile when Caroline immediately went to give the boy money and pat on the head, then tugging her onward into the fray, losing themselves completely from Roland’s sight as he dove for a cell-phone to track an easier entrance to the place.

“He’ll still follow us.” Caroline warned, even as the crowd pushed them forward and further into the market.

“Let him try. I have just the solution.” Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the double-ring giving her an ETA from Dawn and Sunny. “We just have to get to the other side before Roland…”

Easier said than done, as Caroline could not but help pause at every turn, her eyes wide with wonder at everything from the bright colored headscarves to the dried fish that seemed larger than the stall selling it. Raised in the company of bodyguards and assistants, she didn’t have the pedestrian’s instinct, pausing in the middle of thoroughfares or trying to move against the press of traffic. Marianne kept a tight hand on her, lightly directing her to the edges of stalls or holding her back from the worst of the rush, but allowing her to stop whenever something caught her fancy. Every minute she could give Dawn would help their ruse.

She said nothing about the majority of the vendors only existing for tourists, nor the fact that half the goods were surely made in China rather than with “traditional techniques passed down generations”. Caroline was in heaven and enjoying herself fully, and they made good time despite it, reaching the other end of the market in less than half an hour - a feat that Marianne was certain Dawn would not have been able to manage.

Still, there was a green car idling at the entrance when they arrived, surrounded by tourists and locals alike, and Caroline visibly deflated, even as the two of them darted behind a map-stand so as to remain hidden.

“I should have walked faster…”

Marianne chuckled. “Ye of little faith. Our ride just got here.”

And it had. Caroline peeked out from behind the stand, and her mouth dropped open in surprise even while her face lit up. Marianne didn’t even have to look to know what she saw.

Coming towards them, easily dodging around pedestrians and earning applause, was a bright white rickshaw, covered in flowers and ribbon, its tall sides hiding any passenger who rode within it. Petals floated behind it, falling like a train, while pink roses climbed the sides and creamy yellow lilies peaked out from between blue and green braided ribbon, everything flowing in the subtle Monaco breeze. A princess’s chariot, driven by a smiling man wearing a white coachman’s jacket, streamers blowing fancifully in the wind. It could not have been more perfect had it been pulled by a white horse. 

“Is that…” Caroline began.

Marianne interrupted her by whistling loudly, and the rickshaw trundled towards them, stopping with a tinkle of bells right before the kiosk.

The small, dark man leapt from the bike and bowed low to Caroline. “M’lady requested a ride?”

The heiress clapped her hands like a little girl and gleefully answered yes.

He bowed again and opened the door for them both, crushed petals littering the small floor and making everything smell of sweet perfume. Inside the sides revealed themselves to be made of light plastic, clear from the inside but opaque from the outside, meaning that Caroline could look out on the world around her while being protected from prying eyes...and from Roland. The seats were soft, the fabric felt like silk, and the air inside was cool and fresh.

They had barely sat down before the small man peddled away, cutting through the crowd with easy familiarity and then on, out into the street and right past Roland’s car. Once again the two women avoiding the CEO without him even noticing, though children ran behind them, picking up discarded flowers and laughing as they pedaled by, waving after the fanciful ride, while adults and tourists paused to take pictures of the scene.

“Oh! This is magical!” Caroline said, head turning to take in the whole carriage. “I’ve never seen some of these flowers before! But the smell...its like perfume!” She inhaled and smiled. “Its as good as _Dior_.”

The rickshaw driver coughed and Marianne resisted the urge to kick him. 

“Do you like it?” she asked, tinging her reply with the same waver in her voice that Dawn used when she was truly nervous about a new project and terrified of having her feelings crushed. 

Caroline turned and gathered up Marianne’s hands. “Do I?! This is amazing! It makes me feel like a princess!”

Marianne smiled back at her, faking earnestness and making her eyes shimmer with honesty. “You’ve made so many of the rest of us feel special. I...I wanted to do the same for you.”

"Oh, you _have_! You truly, truly have!"

\------------------

The driver brought them to the hotel in a neat fifteen minutes, just in time for Caroline to force herself away to her next meeting, pausing only to tip the driver extravagantly and compliment him on everything she could think of be for being bundled off by her secretary.

The little man beamed at her, sweat lining his face, and waved goodbye until she reached the door.

Only then did he sag onto the pavement.

“ _Fuck_ , Mari, I felt every damn ounce of those scones.”

Marianne snorted and sat down next to Sunny. “Ha Ha.”

“I mean it. Every. Ounce. Please go on a diet before we do that again.”

“C’mon." Marianne teased back. "It was downhill the entire way.”

“You didn’t have to stop us from crashing off a cliff. Twice. I nearly had a heart attack.”

“Uh huh. How much is this gonna cost us?”

“A grand, unless we don’t get it back in time for the evening rush.”

As he spoke Dawn pulled up in front of the curb with a white transport van almost the exact copy of the one they used in Paris for surveillance. Amazing how fast you could find the things, when you really needed them. 

“Did she notice the _Dior_?” She asked as she hopped down from the front seat and helped Marianne and Sunny manhandle the rickshaw into the back.

Sunny nodded. “Yup. In twelve seconds. Girl is _good_.” 

“I told you we should have gone for something more expensive.”

Marianne snorted. “As long as she honestly thought it was flowers.”

They all paused to look at the rickshaw. It was perhaps lucky that Caroline had not looked too hard at it upon leaving - the whole thing was rather worse for wear after the fifteen minute ride. Flowers and ribbons hung limply off the side, the only blooms having survived the Monaco humidity the plastic ones that Caroline had been unable to identify. Every lily had lost its petals, the roses wilted, pansies were picked to pieces and the ribbons that had dragged in the mud were dirty and torn. Worse, the duct tape used to hold the whole thing together was showing through, though Dawn was a stickler for detail and had used her white-and-star wedding tape that she kept for special occasions. The bells had been recorded, played from a speaker Sunny had in his pocket, and the whole interior was scrounged from their hotel bed and couch. 

Not bad for ten-minutes of prep, but the results weren’t pretty now.

“And the kids?”

“Bribed them with cigarettes. Half-pack a head. With that tip, we might have actually made a profit on this one.”

Marianne shook her head, then shifted her shoulders. “Alright. Let’s tear this thing apart.”

Both Sunny and Dawn gulped. Away from Caroline, the cheerful, supportive act was dropping, and the woman who stared out from the mask had violence in her eyes.

Dawn drove. Sunny rested in the back. The advertising agency they'd borrowed the rickshaw from hadn't asked any questions - not for a grand in cash and a promise to only use it for two hours - but they might look askance at their billboard being returned in such a state. Worse, they might remember the whole thing and connect it back to the _Heartbreakers_. As such, during the drive they removed every hint of its short stint as a fantasy. White cellophane came off, revealing the branding of a cellphone company. Ribbons and streamers were discarded, bundled into a trash-bag that would find itself in a far-off dumpster. The duck tape became a rather impressive ball that graced another dumpster. 

And the flowers...

Marianne ripped every flower from the princess carriage and ground them beneath her heel into the dirt. 

Every. Single. One.


	10. The Lizard Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne is not doing well. Roland has sent her off kilter, and now she doesn't know what she should do.

When the Heartbreakers returned to their room, Marianne was walking in a daze, giving grunts as answers to Dawn’s increasingly worried babbling. As Marianne said less, Dawn said more, their distress feeding on each other and leaving Sunny attempting to shrink into the floor between them.

Dawn’s words rose and fell in a constant stream while Marianne shut and dead-bolted the door behind them, pulled out the desk-chair with a screech, shoved aside Sunny’s mountain of energy drinks and take-out containers, and pressed her head into the cool wood.

Dawn’s endless stream of chatter faded out and both she and Sunny watched as Marianne closed her eyes tight and shook for exactly thirty seconds.

Sunny grabbed Dawn’s arm when she immediately went to comfort her sister, holding her back until the shaking had subsided and their leader’s breathing had been forcibly evened out.

Marianne inhaled and exhaled, counting the seconds between each breath, emptying every thought from her mind, and for a moment just letting herself be drowned in the wash of emotions, before carefully bottling it all back up until the next time she found a punching bag.

Two minutes later she sat up and turned to her worried family.

“Alright. Crisis mode.”

Sunny and Dawn both breathed out. Dawn pulled up another chair and Sunny crossed his legs on the bed.

Marianne closed her eyes again, breathing carefully in control and said, 

“So what do we know?”

Dawn and Sunny shared a look, and Dawn started, her babbling replaced with intentional clarity.

“Caroline Clarkson is related to Roland White.”

“How?”

“Second cousins.” Sunny said, pulling up a quickly generated family history.

“The Clarksons are old money.” Dawn added. “As are the Whites. But if the Clarksons are the Kennedys, the Whites are the Hiltons. Everyone respects the Clarkson name. The Whites are just an offshoot who got famous.”

“Right.” Marianne kneaded her temples. “Give me a run-down of their business ties.”

“Caroline has her cosmetics company, her sister is a venture capitalist in Silicon Valley. Everyone basically agrees that the cosmetics company is just a hobby. Her sister is the big hitter. Again, the parent’s are from old money. Her father has had a few business ventures, some which have succeeded, some which failed but didn’t lose the family much money. Mostly they just sit on their wealth.” Sunny read off from his notes.

“The whole Clarkson clan is like that.” Dawn added. “Some are in real estate, some major investors, others in finance...they’re spread out all across the top. The kids are in the spotlight when they do something, but most of them sit in the background pulling strings. The older generations generally stay out of the public eye, except for charity functions, endowments and the like.”

“How did we miss the White connection?”

Sunny gulped. “I...I guess I never considered it. The Whites act like new money. All of them are CEOs, all of them like the spotlight, all of them work their brand. They have no more or less connection with the other Clarkson holdings than any other company. At most a White suit might be sold in the same store as Clarkson cosmetics, but beyond that they’re pretty distinct.”

He continued on. “I don’t...I don’t really look for gossip on _Summerfield_ now. If I had, I’d have noticed the connection to Bog. On the Dark Forest side there hasn’t been much speculation about acquiring _Summerfield_ , but there are plenty of rumors about _Summerfield_ ’s financial troubles and DFB is one of the top logical buyers.” He couldn’t look at Marianne’s face while he spoke, ashamed of his oversight and in equal parts terrified of what he might see.

Dawn forced herself to look, though, and saw as Marianne’s knuckles went white and her face turned stony. 

Then she sighed. “Guys, I don’t know if I can do this if Roland’s involved.” She released her death-grip on the chair’s armrest. “I’m not...I can’t be certain of myself around him. Today we got lucky. But tomorrow…” Her eyes darkened again and it took effort for her to keep even breathing. 

“We haven’t talked about if we should continue, with or without Roland.” Sunny said, trying to defuse the tension.

“...right.” Marianne grabbed gratefully onto the different topic. “I haven’t been around Bog enough to get a read on him, but Caroline is definitely a good person, if naive. Dawn, what do you think?”

“Mmm.” The younger Summer’s sister considered. Love was supposed to be her area of expertise. “I don't know about Bog either. But Caroline...I’m not sure if she’s mature enough for a serious relationship. She might really love Bog, but that doesn’t mean she - or he - is ready to tie the knot. Right now, I can’t even tell if they have anything in common, anything to base their relationship on more than mutual attraction.”

“Caroline said they had a similar philosophy.” Marianne said.

Dawn pursed her lips. “That would make it worse. How can you really love someone if you’re so influenced by everyone else? They’ve invented persona that they show the world, and that is what the other has fallen for. But that has nothing of the real them in it.”

“So you think we should continue?”

“I...I don’t know.” Dawn said honestly. “I think we got a glimpse of the real Caroline today. She’s a good, kind person. Her reaction to Roland proved that. She doesn't allow herself much freedom to be herself, though. It could be that by being together she and Bog could pull out the best in each other and be more true to themselves in the long run. The beginning might be a bit fake, but they could be a really good match in the long run, and if that’s the case we should help them, not get in the way.”

“You’ve got a ‘but’ coming.”

“Yeah. They might _not_ be good for each other. They might care about different things, or reinforce the need to keep up that ‘perfect’ image - especially if they both think that’s the ‘right’ thing to do. Even if they both are truly wonderful people, they could still be really bad for each other, and by the time they figure it out it might be too late. Business ties, children, houses, public perception...they both could get stuck in a loveless marriage and force themselves to play out the part while they’re dying inside.”

Marianne nodded glumly, rubbing her arms to drive the chill out. They had broken up plenty of couples in that last stage, and there were always grim stories in the news where the Heartbreakers could have prevented a lot of suffering had they been called in. It was easy for couples to fall into dysfunction and to force themselves to continue because the ‘normal' was less frightening than the unknown, even if that normal was empty or abusive. Even if the relationship the Heartbreakers concocted was a lie, Marianne did genuinely believe that they showed their clients that the world outside wasn’t as scary as their previous relationships had suggested, and that there were millions of things to make life worth living beyond just one relationship. Friends, family, hobbies and work...all of those could bring just as much meaning to a life as a relationship. 

“Maybe that’s why Griselda hired us. To find out before it's too late.” Sunny said.

“Right. I’d say we should stick to it at least a few more days, then send in our decision.”

“That depends on me lasting a few more days.” 

It was impossible to stay in the business without a good understanding of one’s own psyche, and when it came to Roland, Marianne had to be blunt.

Sunny frowned and Dawn remained unusually silent.

“He’s ruined my life, ruined _all_ our lives. His presence throws all our plans out the window; He can’t see Dawn, he’d recognize her. That means no photography shoots to break Bog and Caroline apart. I can’t be around him long, else I might break character. That means staying away from dinners and brunches, and any of the big events they have planned. We were already crunched for time; this might make it impossible.”

Grudgingly, Sunny nodded. The situation didn’t look good.

Then Dawn spoke up.

“That feels like letting him win.”

“Excuse me?” All the forced calm snapped out of Marianne’s voice, and Sunny suddenly wanted to be nowhere near the two sisters.

But Dawn held her ground.

“We’ve never backed out of a job before. I don't want him to be the reason why.” Marianne’s knuckles were white on the arm rest again, and Sunny tugging on Dawn's sleeve to convince her to be quiet, but she kept going. “Roland is a jerk, but I won't let him win. Not again. Not after everything that's happened. And I know you're scared, because I am too. But this time you're not alone, Mari. You're our leader, but you don't have to do everything yourself. Why don't you let us take the reins for a bit?

“Sunny and I can make the plans and set up the scenes...all you would have to do is be the face. Yeah, that might put you in contact with Roland, but we'll be with you on the mic and supporting you from behind the scenes. We can minimize contact as much as possible and maybe even use Caroline’s dislike of her cousin to our advantage. Doubly so if Bog hates him too.”

Marianne released her death grip and sat back. 

“It sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Well...I never thought it would be all at once. But I do want to get more involved with the business and show you what I can do. And we were going to run into Roland eventually. He's been trying to find you for years, Mari. He hasn't let up on Dad since you disappeared.”

Marianne looked away. Her relationship with her father was...strained. Filled with guilt and shame on both sides. She hadn't talked to him in five years, though Dawn kept regular contact. Reading the news of their family company was worse, like picking at a scab just to feel the sting, but Marianne did it at least once a week, to remind herself of why she was here.

“That's all the more reason why he can't ever see you, Dawn.”

Sunny finally spoke up. “Dawn might need to hide, but no one notices me. Not even Caroline. I can run interference on the ground; I've already got ids that can get me just about anywhere in the building and I nicked a waiter's out fit that will get me into the restaurants. You won't be alone in the field.”

Marianne looked from Dawn to Sunny. “It sounds like you've got it all figured out.”

“Not completely.” Dawn admitted. “I need about four hours to plan everything out. If you'd just give me that…”

Marianne couldn't help but chuckle at her sister's hopeful expression. She was always pushing Dawn to be more mature, and now she was finally flexing her muscles.

“In other words, _Get out Mari, and let me think_?”

Guilt flashed across Dawn's face. “Uhhhh…”

“I'm teasing. I need to get away from this all anyways. Sunny, can you find me an empty bar? One where none of this, “ she waved a hand indicating Roland, and Bog, and the whole entire mess, “will bother me?”

“...I actually have just the thing.”

\----------

“Well?” Even behind a desk that was made out of more cardboard that substance, Bog King managed to intimidate. His hands were crossed, long fingers woven around each other as if in prayer, and his eyes hooded.

Fang, a twenty year veteran of the King business, both before and after it went legit, shivered in spite of himself. Griselda terrified because of the incongruity of sweet old lady running a mob cell. Bog terrified because of his sheer presence. None of the old hands could forget his pedigree, even if he never acted upon it, and days like today the violence seemed to bubble just below the surface, liable to strike out at any moment. The fact that it had never happened before made it more terrifying, not less.

And no one wanted to be the bearer of bad news.

“Well, there are good things and bad things, boss.”

“Tell me about the reporter.”

Fang smiled with relief. “That’s one of the good things! Well. Mostly. Lady did exactly as she said, went out to brunch with Miss. Caroline and asked all her questions right politely. Only a few of them weren’t on the list sent to Penny, and she really listened to Caroline’s answers. Didn’t interrupt or nuthin. Lot nicer than most of those sharks Thang deals with.”

“And Caroline?”

“She loved the girl. She was glow’n like the sun when she got back, an let me tell you, that wasn’t easy giv’n who showed up.”

There was ice in Bog’s voice as he asked, “Who showed up?” as if he already knew the answer.

Fang gulped. “Well, that’s the bad thing, boss. Roland showed up.”

Bog’s clasped hands hit the desk with a thump but Fang kept talking.

“ ‘e interrupted the interview, swooped in and tried to take over. Even tried to steal the reporter. Then he sent Caroline’s car off and tried to grab her when she left. Y’know if he’d succeeded she’d have missed that meeting with the Sacks rep, right? But Roland don’t take no for an answer.”

“No, he doesn’t.” The ice from his boss’s voice could have frozen nitrogen.

“But that’s where the reporter lady came in! She took one look at Caroline’s pout and shut him down. Better than I’ve ever seen before. Roland was out the door in a minute flat, lookin’ like he didn’t know what hit him. Oh I should have got a picture boss! I ain’t never seen the bastard look so sour!”

“So ‘e hung outside until the interview was over, and Caroline was gonna cry again. I’d ‘ave gone out the back, but his cronies were out there. Not that the reporter girl even checked. She went right out the front, Caroline in hand, and made Roland look like a fool ‘cus ‘e didn’ notice ‘em leave.”

“She must ‘ave planned it, boss, cus the second Roland came after ‘em she took Caroline into the Moulins street market. I even lost them for a bit, though I followed right after just to keep Miss. Caroline safe. Reporter lady is good, sir. Got Caroline through the market in all one piece, then caught a rickshaw out, right past where Roland was waiting for them. Miss Caroline’s never been in a car like that, sir, and it was right pretty, made up all with flowers an’ stuff. Said it made her feel like a princess. An it got her back to the hotel in time for ‘er meeting.”

“And where is this reporter now?”

Fang blinked. “Uh. Didn't know, boss. I guess back at the hotel. She helped the rickshaw driver load up ‘is cart and drove off, so I followed Caroline.” 

Bog bit back a flash of irritation. Fang had done his job admirably and had reported right away. In his mother’s organization, loyalty was valued far more over cleverness, so there was no reason that Fang would have considered following the reporter after she was out of Caroline’s sight.

So instead of yelling at the poor man, who was only now realizing that Bog might have wanted more information on the reporter, rather that the woman who’s busy schedule was known down to the second, Bog called over Stuff.

“Find the reporter girl for me. Miss...Dawkins, was it? I think we’re overdue for a...chat.”

\--------------- 

The bar Sunny found was perfect. About ten minutes outside the city, it looked out over an ocean view and should have been packed with locals. Instead, it was nigh empty, indirectly from Bog’s wedding.

The bartender was an old friend of Sunny’s, and happily supplemented his income with money from a faction of the Italian mob that brought drugs into Europe through Monaco. The empty bar, stocked with high-class liquor and with beautifully polished mahogany floors, had no customers because most were ‘on vacation’ - avoiding the notorious King Family Matron lest any blip in her son’s wedding result in a swift, violent purge of the perpetrators. Others were languishing in jail, thanks to the Monaco police cracking down on minor vendors in preparation for the big event bringing hordes of tourists and press into their tiny country.

So Pare was happy to have a customer, and Marianne was happy to have her privacy, drinking her way through two beers and eating the kind of hideously greasy bar food that only a New York native could serve up. 

Neither would be something she could eat in front of the high-class Kings and Clarksons, so she reveled in it, even as she switched out beer for whiskey and started her long slog into intoxication. Right now the last thing she wanted to do was think or put on an act for privileged twats that reminded her too much of her own bitter past.

Her com was turned off in her purse, though her cell was charged and easily accessible if a real crisis appeared. Not that she believed Dawn would have any reason to call her. Both Bog and Caroline were busy working and Roland would be posing for the cameras and hitting up much ritzier bars all throughout the night. No one would be knocking on their hotel door or showing up at a tiny, unknown bar far outside the city.

“Dawn, don’t worry. I can talk my way out of anything except Roland. Just keep me away from him, and we’ll be fine.”

“Sure, but what if…”

“I won’t drunkenly make out with Caroline, and I won’t punch Bog in the face. Promise.”

Two hours later, she punched Bog in the face.


	11. The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bog and Marianne get into a fight. But not in the way you might think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information on _The Fantasticks_ go [here](http://karkael.tumblr.com/post/161119252141/the-fantasticks)

In her defense, he had asked for it. Literally.

Halfway through her second whiskey she felt his presence. One moment the bar was empty and she was fighting down her thoughts with the bitter tang of scotch. The next there was a blast of warm air and a tall, even presence behind her.

She caught herself before she turned to look, knocking back the whiskey and tightening her eyes, praying _Not Bog. Not Bog_ to no avail. She had always been able to sense power in a presence. One didn’t grow up around diplomats and tycoons without picking it up; the way those who were secure in themselves breathed and moved, while those who had something to hide or wanted something took up too much space and talked too loud. 

Roland always was the center of attention, his magnetic personality drawing others to him for the same selfish reasons he sought out others: to see and be seen as the _most_ \- most glamorous, most beautiful, most rich. When she met him she hadn’t had the sense to look for the man behind him, the little secretary types that held the real power and directed the whirlwind of destruction that was Roland White. She found out later that he went through dozens of them, those with potential snapped up by better employers while the lazy or uninspired eventually were fired in fits of rage for imagined slights, chewed up and spit out by Roland's playboy lifestyle, those with any sense at all having long ago fled ship.

Bog and his ilk, the real CEOs who commanded the respect of both their peers and their employees, didn’t need secretaries cleaning up after them. They didn’t care if no one noticed them on the street - often it was better because then no one interfered with getting work done. But those who dealt often with power - accountants, lawyers, maitre'ds, bankers, and valets - the little people that Roland would never notice - gravitated towards them almost subconsciously.

Marianne had been growing into her own confidence when Roland had appeared and shown her the folly of her ways, the foolishness of her respect to the old-money types whose gravitas alone could move the world and the arrogance of new-money bravado. Now she herself only mimicked that presence when she wanted to get drinks in crowded bars, and parodied Roland’s nouveau riche attitude when she wanted to distract boutique clerks away from Dawn. Such things were just personas for her, nothing that she could honestly call her own. Nothing that she deserved.

But Pare was back at the counter a bare minute after Bog walked in the door, and didn’t even blink when the man placed a 50 euro note on the counter and ordered another whiskey for Marianne and a second for himself.

The voice was undeniable, and Marianne was forced to accept that an Italian _don_ had not just happened to stop by, and that she was in a far worse situation than merely being shot for arrogance.

“You’re a hard woman to find, Ms. Dawkins.” He said as he sat down beside her.

“Would you believe me if I said it was intentional?” She set another note on the counter, refusing to let the CEO buy her time.

“Avoiding the subject of your story? My mother will be disappointed.” The scotch wasn’t the best, but it was good for the price Pare had simply guessed at.

Marianne pursed her lips. “I have the right to my privacy. Especially when I’m off the clock.”

“Your right to privacy is contingent on invading mine.”

She knocked back the glass, savoring the burn and the way it made her eyes water. “Ironic, ain’t it?”

“As is your choice of venue. Are you aware who owns this place?”

Marianne snorted over her refill. “Pare owns the place. If you’re asking who uses it, then yeah, I know it's a mob bar. But Pare’s an old friend.”

Bog raised a brow and Pare shrugged. “I went to university with a friend of hers, sir. I can promise no harm will come to you here; the boss wouldn’t stand for it, even if anyone else were ‘round.”

The tycoon turned back to Marianne. “You have some interesting friends, Miss. Dawkins.”

“It comes with the business, sir.”

Amazing how she could slip _go away_ into a single syllable, but she had practice.

“Do most reporters know mobsters?” He prompted, picking at her story as easily as she had picked at Caroline’s.

“You might be surprised at how much Business and Crime cross over. Or maybe not.” She smiled and he chuckled into his drink. It was a rich, woody sound, and Marianne suddenly understood why Caroline seemed so desperate to make Bog happy, if that was the reward.

“You must be wondering why I’m here."

“Unless you want to sit for an interview, I couldn’t care less.” Maybe she was playing the rebellious card too hard, but she wasn't in the mood for masks tonight and feeling self destructive enough to let a bit of her true self show.

“I wanted to thank you for helping Caroline. She couldn't stop talking about you at dinner.”

“If all I had to do to impress her was refrain from punching a twat in the face her standards are too low.”

Bog looked at her hard. “You're the only woman she's ever met that didn’t fall at her cousin's feet the instant he walked through the door.”

Another gulp of scotch, and Marianne was wishing her target would just drop the topic. She didn't want praise or thanks; she had barely kept herself together the instant Roland appeared. A professional would be ashamed of her reaction. She was supposed to be beyond of of that now.

And yet Roland could still ruin everything with a word.

“Don’t make it sound so sexist. As if men don’t fall at Roland White’s feet just as much as women.” She tossed her hair, hating the feel of sweat gluing damp locks to the back of her neck. “Just because he doesn’t take them to bed doesn’t mean he doesn’t fuck them just the same. But you’re not just here for Caroline. You’re here to make me play nice with him, aren’t you?”

Bog leaned back. “And why do you think that?”

“Man like you doesn’t come all the way out here just to say thank you. Not when you could have caught me at the hotel just as easy. Either you want to get away, or you need to tell me off for jeopardizing your latest acquisition.”

Bog snorted. “You have seriously misunderstood my position if you think I, or anyone in my company, were anything but ecstatic at your actions. You saved Caroline and shamed Roland twice in front of the Paparazzi. Theo was snickering all day long and Caroline’s assistant is probably writing you love-letters right now.”

Marianne paused, considering this new information. Things must have changed quite a lot in the last twelve years if any businessman - even someone so above it all like Bog - was comfortable speaking his disdain to a reporter. “Is he really that bad?”

“Worse.” Bog admitted. “And that is not just my personal bias against the man." He swirled the liquid in his glass, eyes darkening. “When I heard he appeared, my first thought was for Caroline. If that ass made her cry again…” He forced himself away from the thought. “He may, as you say, fuck everyone he meets, but he’s started running out of new victims.”

“Yet here he is, trying to woo you into buying his company.”

Bog sneered. “It's not _his_ company. Nor is it his to sell.”

Now it was Marianne’s turn to lean back and try to hide the bitterness in her voice. “Could have fooled me. He’s got the controlling shares and forced the former leader into virtual retirement. The board is eating out of his hand and the shareholders cheer every time the stock price goes up. He might as well be king of his own little country.”

“Except, of course, he’s let the business go to hell.” said Bog. “And he uses the whole thing as his personal piggy bank. Perhaps things look rosy in front of the press, but even the board is starting to worry about the future of _Summerfield_. And of course all the staff hate him with a passion.” 

He took Marianne’s surprised silence for interest and continued,

“If I do buy the business, it's not because Roland is begging me, it's to save it from his leadership, and out of respect for what the business once was. Summerfield Stationary has always been sold in DFB stores, since the very beginning. The first Summerfield took a chance on us; our business would never be what it is today without his faith in us. It’s only fair to pay back that faith now that his company is teetering on the brink of collapse.”

Marianne licked her lips and forced her words out. “You would buy a failing company from an idiot just out of gratitude?” Her voice became stronger as she continued. “That line might work on your board, but you can’t fool me. Why do you really want the company?”

Bog’s eyes widened, as her off-the-wall guess apparently hit harder than anticipated. Then he looked away.

“I can’t stand to see what Summerfield built be destroyed.” He said, and his voice rang with hard truth. “I...I knew them, you see. The Summerfields. They were good, kind people, great friends of my father. They trusted my mother, even knowing her history, and welcomed her into their circle when the rest of their set turned her away.

“And Lady Summerfield...she taught me piano. She was a stunning concert pianist, and there were so many far more talented children among their circle, but she singled me out anyways and made me feel welcome when no one else would.

“Probably she just saw me as a replacement for her daughters, who they kept out of the business, away at boarding schools and the like. But the kindness she showed me made an impression, and some of my happiest childhood memories are from times she and her husband visited my family home and she taught me piano. Her death ripped me to the core. Everything that happened after, with Roland and the disappearance of her daughter and all of that...it seemed an affront to her memory. To her legacy. To what she tried to build.

“So when you say that I have another reason for buying Summerfield Stationary I suppose you’re right. Its for her. For Elina Summerfield.”

He set his unfinished glass back down on the counter and shook the mist from his eyes. The scotch must have gotten to him faster than he expected. Spilling his memories, ones that Caroline didn’t even know of, to some nobody reporter was foolish. No one took romantics seriously in the business, especially ones who would through millions around on mere sentiment.

But when he looked at Mari, he found her silence anything but judgmental. Her words seemed stuck in her throat. And when she finally spoke, it was the last thing that he might have expected.

“So that’s why you like the Fantasticks so much.”

\-----------------------------

Bog nearly dropped his glass, and Marianne felt some obscene pleasure at shocking him as much as he had shocked her.

“When I heard that you proposed to Caroline at a private showing of some obscure play, it didn’t make any sense.” She began, ignoring Bog’s muffled mention of _second longest running play_. “But Elina Summerfield loved to play music for musicals. Everyone she ever taught learned bits of the Fantasticks score, no matter how far ‘beneath’ their talent it was.” She shook her head. “When Caroline said you styled yourself after the Bandit, I couldn’t understand why, but now it makes so much more sense.”

Bog found his voice. “So you know the play?”

Marianne shrugged, careful to skip around the truth but say no lie Bog might notice. The man was too damn perspective, even after two glasses of scotch. “The songs are catchy. Once you learn them, you can’t...you can’t really forget.” She hoped he didn’t notice the way her voice broke, memories battling to crumple her carefully constructed barricades.

“Who is your favorite character, then?” 

She opened her mouth to respond, citing that everyone loved the Bandit-come-narrator, but then paused. For it was true, painfully true that she had loved the character as a child, if for the simple selfish logic that he had the most - and best - lines. But she wasn’t that child any more. She had lived and struggled and come out the other side, just like the girl in the story, but she had been to broken to return to the fold.

“The Wall.” She found herself saying.

Bog blinked, and set his glass down, considering. “An interesting choice. The one character without a voice...why would you choose that?”

“Doesn't the play itself say? _You must always leave The Wall /for deep in December it's nice to remember /without a hurt the heart is hollow._ I’m a... reporter. Only ever a witness or an impediment to others happiness. The Fantasticks is a reminder that even I have a place in this world, despite...or maybe because of it.”

Then, because Bog was looking at her with too much understanding in his eyes, she hurriedly added, “And because I played the part in College.” She didn't mention that she'd taken the part because it allowed her to direct from the stage.

But the half-truth distracted Bog, and she hid a sigh of relief.

“You were an actress?” Of course the man would be interested in that. He was a theater goer himself.

“It wasn't my main focus. But it was something for _me_. At that time in my life, I needed it.” Desperately, in fact, but she pushed away from that topic. “Plus, it was fun.”

He chuckled at that. “Indeed. I did much the same in high school.”

“Oh? What were your roles?” She asked, then flushed as he raised an eyebrow.

“As if my mother hasn't already told you at length.”

She admitted, “Alright, I might have seen some playbills. Iago, really?”

“Didn't miss a single line.” He said with some pride.

“Oh really?” She grinned. “ _And what’s he then that says I play the Villain?_ ”

Bog grinned back. “ _When this advice free I give and honest, probal to thinking and indeed the course._ ” 

“You still know it, of course. Uh... _For 'tis most easy, The inclining Desdemona to subdue, In any honest suit._ ”

“You know it as well!” Bogs smile only seemed to grow. 

“Well, the villains do get the best lines. Plus, it’s easier to remember when someone’s not swinging a sword at you.”

Bog’s brow creased. “There isn’t a fight there…”

Marianne waved a quick hand. “No, no. My group and I would practice monologues while stage fighting. The adrenaline would help us remember our lines, and make them more real at the same time. Makes remembering any other speech a heck of a lot easier as well.”

“Mmm. I found that classical training helps in the boardroom as well. But punching at actors seems far more fun than glaring down investors.” He paused, then said impulsively, “Would you show me?”

“Show you what?” 

“This fighting Shakespeare. I bet I could keep up.”

“Uh…” Screw it. She had loved the workout in college, and it would ease as much tension as boxing. So she drained her glass. “Sure. If you can find some weapons.”

Bog nodded to a corner, where a broom set was shoved in among some stacked chairs.

“Alright. Pare? Take the tip out of what Mr. King gave you. Let’s have some fun.”

\----------------------------- 

“ _O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars are in the poorest thing superfluous._ ”

“Lear, really? Try harder, tough guy. _Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as beast's._ ” 

Marianne spun, hitting Bog’s broom handle with a resounding _whack!_ Sweat caked her brow and her chest was pounding, but it was so worth it.

Bog gave as good as he got, grinning as he dramatically twisted his self-fashioned staff, dust having long been knocked away by blows from Marianne’s shorter ‘sword’ - a tennis racket. His own face was slick, and he had discarded his his suit down to his shirt-sleeves, apparently not caring about the stains growing around the collar and back. Marianne’s tank-top was equally drenched. 

“You - hah - move like a fencer!” He thrust forward with the broom and she dodged around it, but he was ready, bringing the bristled end up and over his shoulder, swinging the other end at her stomach, forcing her to block with both hands on her ‘sword’.

“Three years in high-school. You fight like a ninja!”

“I do not. This is Wushu. Lets see... _All the world’s a stage_ …”

“Oh boo! “ she dashed forward, trying to get behind his lanky range. “Why not go for Hamlet, if we want cliches? _And all the men and women merely players; they have their entrances and their exit, and one man in his time plays many parts._ I should do the whole thing, just to spite you.”

He jerked back, light on his feet despite his size. “Woman, I’m running out of plays! Did you memorize everything from Shakespeare?” the fact that he was keeping up at all was amazing; from everything Steph and Theo had said he barely had time to sleep, much less exercise, much less memorize obscure quotes.

“Not everything. Just the parts I wanted to play.” she grinned and hit the broom hard enough to send it wide, leaving Bog open for an attack.

He laughed as she light batted his side with her racket, “Iago, Lear, and all the hard ones?”

“I never played a girl on stage, and I never will!” She declared with pride. “And if you did want to trip me up, start pulling from the romances. I hate them!”

“Oh? No Romeos serenading you? No Olivia’s looking longingly in your direction?” 

“I don’t need the reminder that people are stupid in love. The proof is all around us!”

“Hah! Love is perfect for the stage. Isn’t that where fantasies are supposed to happen?”

“Now who’s the cynic?” 

“I live in the light, dear girl. _Take away the golden movies_ \- “

She laughed and sang back, “ _Take away the chance to fight_.”

“ _What at night seems oh so scenic_ ” And he went on the offensive, staff moving in a whirling, wind-mill blur blows almost impossible to anticipate. 

“ _May seem cynic in the light._ ” His whirling blows drove her back, for the first time giving her a true challenge as she sang along.

“ _Much too soon…_ ” He continued the lyric into the final verse, swinging at her feet and forcing her to jump. In that time he moved forward, as she landed on the edge of the stage and far too close to him for propriety's sake. 

She wobbled on the edge, racket uselessly far away as he pushed forward into her personal space, blue eyes glowing with mischief as he prepared to shove her off the edge.

“By and…” He prompted, and suddenly he was too close and her heart was beating fast…

And she punched him, straight in his smug face.

He thumped to the floor, and what she had done hit home and she yelped.

“Sorry!” 

completely in time to the silent music.


	12. Knock Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne recovers from punching Bog...by giving him a hit to his emotions instead!

“Shit! Pare, get some ice!” Marianne hovered, horrified at her actions and mentally preparing her will and testament. She had hit _The_ Bog King in the face, and now he was flat out on the stage floor, collapsed into one long, lanky spread-eagle. Pare hurried up with a bar-towel and an ice bucket, his huge, worried eyes reflecting Marianne’s own terror, and they both hovered over the tycoon, ready for fire and brimstone to start raining down.

And then Bog started laughing.

This wasn’t the quiet, amused chuckle from before. Instead Bog guffawed, one hand going to his stomach as he lost his breath from laughter. Then, as Pare and Marianne shared a look, he sat up, still chuckling, and gingerly massaged his face, grin wide enough to show off sharp incisors and the fine scars on his chin. 

Finally he looked at Marianne, amusement not fading from his face. “Jeezus, woman. What a hook!”

Marianne flushed. “Uh. Yeah. Boxing. For ten years.” 

Bog clapped his hands together. “Impressive! I would have never expected it!”

Marianne scratched her neck. “You’re not...angry?”

“What? No! My personal trainer would be cheering right now.” Bog shook his head. “He always says I underestimate people. Especially those I...uh…”

Marianne raised a brow. “Look down on?”

Bog coughed. “Ah. Yes.”

Marianne shooed a grateful Pare away and sat down next to Bog, legs kicking off the short stage. It was only a foot off the ground. Even if she had fallen the worst that would have happened was a twisted ankle...or falling on her ass in front of the man she needed to impress.

She handed him the ice and towel.

“People underestimate me all the time. Usually it’s a good thing.”

“I suppose so.” He accepted the cold compress and held it to his face. “Still. You keep surprising me. After today, I should have been more careful.”

“You mean with Caroline? You couldn’t have guessed I was a boxer from that.”

“That’s just it. I don’t know you at all, Ms. Dawkins. And yet you continue to surprise.”

“Sorry.” She ducked her head guiltily. Sure, that was what her character was trying to do, but she hadn’t been acting tonight. Especially when she hit him. 

But he was still grinning. “Don’t be. There are very few people in my life who still can do it.”

Marianne huffed. “You sound like an old man.”

“I am!” Bog protested.

“Thirty isn’t _old_.” She said. “Maybe older than Caroline, but not old enough to be so disillusioned.”

“Says the woman I found drinking as far from the world as she could get.”

The words hit close to home, and Marianne flushed. “Yeah, well...there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” 

“Like why you hate Roland White so much?” Her expression changed so fast, he knew he had hit home. Her flush, a symptom of the ease he had seen as they fought, disappeared into white-faced...something. Fear or anger, it was impossible to tell. Her face shut down completely. In a normal person such anger would immediately be followed by a return to the mask, to the face they showed the world, hiding all weakness an emotion.

Instead, Marianne sighed and looked away for a moment. Bog watched as her shoulders tensed, then eased as she breathed out.

“I...knew someone like him. Things didn’t go well.” She informed him when she turned back, her expression rueful. Then her face darkened. “Tonight, I really don’t want to think about it.”

For a moment Bog wanted to kill Roland, just for the sadness in this woman’s eyes. But that was foolish, idiotic, and he restrained himself.

“Fair enough.” He leaned back again. “I won’t pry if you promise not to tell Caroline about our little...adventure.”

“Oh god. She would kill me.” Marianne said, laughing. 

Then it was Bog’s turn to look pensive. “No. She just wouldn’t understand.” At Marianne’s raised brow he explained. “She’s such a sweet girl. She would never consider punching the crap out of someone fun.” Then he sighed. “And I am usually better than that. Better than the man everyone thinks I am.”

The sudden melancholy in his expression surprised Marianne. “You’re The Bog King. What does it matter if you like a fight now and then?”

“Because thugs fight with their fists, Ms. Dawkins. And when people look at me, that’s what they see. Even people on the street assume that of me. A thug, who puts his desires above others.” He sighed and shook his head. “You don’t fight that image by getting in bar fights, no matter how benign. You fight it by being _better_ than that.”

“By being Perfect?” She asked, words clicking into place as understanding did the same.

He looked at her sharply, then looked away again. “Yes. Though my ‘perfect’ means something quite different than Caroline’s.”

“It’s still holding yourself to an impossible standard.”

“Not acting like a brute is hardly difficult.” 

“But denying yourself a harmless pleasure seems a bit extreme.”

Bog waved a damp hand at his face. “Harmless?”

“Okay, maybe not _harm_ less, “ Marianne admitted. “But as far as I can tell, you don’t let yourself enjoy anything much.” Before Bog could protest she listed, “You barely attend the theater, despite obviously loving it. You let your work take you away from Caroline; even the week before your wedding! All your hobbies are more publicity photos than genuine interest, and yet you meet your trainer only twice a week despite loving to fight. And - “ she declared as the piece de resistance, “According to your mother you haven’t touched a piano in years.”

“Thirteen years.”

Something in his voice froze Marianne. She turned to see him with arms resting on his knees, damp towel hanging uselessly from his hands and eyes hooded.

“Elina died thirteen years ago. I couldn’t...I couldn’t play after that. Not that I had much talent to begin with, but...the pleasure was gone from it after that.” He paused, brooding, and Marianne felt a shock of guilt over his sad expression. “My father died a few years later and I…”

He trailed off, and Marianne got the strange experience of watching someone use the very techniques she herself used to calm and suppress unhelpful emotions. Bog’s brows knitted and he clenched the towel tightly for a moment, only to let it go a moment later as he breathed out the stress.

“I need to honor him. He left me his company, and I need to repay the faith he had in me. I _will_ show the world I can carry on his legacy.”

His voice shook with the intensity of his conviction, and for a moment Marianne herself was convinced. But then she remembered the ‘legacy’ he held himself to caused his own workers to beg outsiders for help in letting him rest, and took him away from the woman who desperately loved him. Was such a legacy really worth it?

“I see I haven’t convinced you.” 

She started, and found Bog looking at her intensely. 

“Well…”

“It’s alright. It’s your job to poke holes in things, correct?”

He smiled wryly, but the tone of his voice clearly indicated that she was back to being a reporter, and he a CEO. The moment of intimacy was gone - perhaps because he had gone to far, and let too much out. Perhaps because when he did so, she had not reacted correctly. Anyone else would have admired his resolve, not doubted. Not kicked at his already open wound.

Cursing, Marianne had no choice but to shrug apologetically as she stood. He waved aside her offered hand and stood himself, leaving the towel behind and shaking off any loose drops of water.

“May I offer you a ride?” He said.

She accepted, knowing no cabs would come out this far this late, but the ride back was desperately awkward. She was in no position to ask more questions or give advice, and he seemed content to remain silent and stare out the window, brooding. The lights of the city reflected off his face, parties and vacationers lighting up the night even as they sat in darkness, a world of perceived difference between them.

It was only when they arrived at the hotel, and after Bog had sent the car away, that he finally spoke to her again. She expected to be pushed away, her actual interview denied or delayed, just punishment from going too far and presuming too much.

But what Bog said instead surprised her.

“You were right, you know. I did want to get away for a bit." He shook his head, as if admitting to a dirty secret. "I don’t often allow myself that luxury, Ms. Dawkins. But our time together was...interesting. Thank you.”

Stunned, Marianne barely had a chance to stammer out “S-sure.” before Bog was drawn away by a secretary, back into his world.

And she was still stuck in hers.


	13. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a chaotic day, three different bedrooms, three different people.

It was midnight when Marianne returned to the _Heartbreakers’_ room, far more sober than she would have expected, given her intended plan for the evening. Sober not just from alcohol, but also a general feeling of malaise. Somehow she had managed to stumble onto all of Bog’s worst memories, even as she had been trying to drown out her own. There was an ironic cruelty to that. Going forward it would be damn hard to be the mysteriously _fun_ person her scenario had hinged upon. Bog probably thought he had revealed too much, though in truth she felt she knew less about him now than when she had started.

Worse, he was now tied up with her memories of her mother, and that hurt as well. The car crash that had killed Elina Summerfield was the starting point of so many of Marianne’s worst experiences, and being reminded of it hurt.

But perhaps it hurt less than it should. Seeing someone else suffer from the tragedy perversely made her feel better. Elina Summerfield had touched so many lives, but to her daughters her disappearance seemed only to affect them. The world had gone on without a blip, their father disappearing back into the same work and their parent’s friends never even speaking of their mother and effortlessly redirecting the conversation if either girl mentioned their loss. To find that someone else felt the same hopelessness and anguish that she had felt somehow validated her feelings from so long ago. Proof, as if she needed more, that she was _not_ a very nice person. 

But when she slipped into the room, she found her sister and Sunny asleep on the bed, laptop balanced on Dawn’s lap, glow lighting her sister’s pale face and Sunny’s dark one, while his head rested on her shoulder and her cheek on his stiff hair. The two curled in each other’s arms, sweet in the way only children could be, the stress of their lives falling from their faces, a reminder that the insanity that Marianne pulled them into was not an unending trial for the two, and that small pleasures could still be found.

It was hard not to smile at the sight, and Marianne eased the computer off of her sister’s lap, not bothering to glance at the plans before shutting it down, preferring to set it aside and find a blanket to pull over the two. She would take the couch tonight, and try not to let the pang of envy sour her sleep.

\----------------------- 

Bog was right; Zhang had laughed at him when he called from the hotel, asking advice for decreasing the swelling from Marianne’s punch. The _Wushu_ master merely reiterated the need for ice between chuckles and made a wry comment about using Caroline’s makeup if the bruising was too severe.

Bog hung up and examined himself in the bathroom mirror. Perhaps it was genetics, or Marianne’s swift application of ice, but there was little indication of swelling or bruises on his face. Of course that could change tomorrow, as Bog knew from mistakes with Zhang, but he felt relatively certain that he would look no worse for the wear. It wasn’t as if a few bruises could make his face look any _worse_ after all. 

But Caroline would worry, so he kept a cool glass to his face as he finished off the day’s business from his laptop. For once, he was back to their rooms before Caroline. She was - he searched his memory of Thang’s itinerary - out for a moonlight boat-ride with her staff. Something he had been invited to, but begged off from for work. Luckily Penny had been alerted to Roland’s presence and had promised that Caroline would be safe from the bastard. If not, Bog might have come to blows for a more serious reason tonight. 

He tried to tell himself his hatred of Roland stemmed from Caroline’s treatment, but the man brought up too many memories of the past for that. Amazing how the man could merely appear and Bog was back to being the awkward freshman, branded by the elites as new money and desperate to prove his family name. Amazing how the memories and guilt of that summer welled up, buoyed by that damnable smile, and the monster everyone saw in him lashed beneath the surface. Amazing how close it came to breaking free just from hearing the man's name. 

The glass shook in his hand, cracks appearing in the crystal.

Caroline deserved someone stronger than that. Someone who could put his own shames aside and defend her on merit alone. 

Even as he was thinking of it, Caroline’s door opened and Bog quickly set the glass down and wiped off his face, bringing up a smile that was only a bit forced. She was beautiful; wind-swept and flushed from the boat-ride, and bubbling over with stories to tell him. As long as she was happy, he told himself, he was as well.

\------------------- 

Roland was singing, and Chipper wondered how many guests she was going to have to pay off at the hotel to forget they saw him. 

The legendary playboy was slung between two of his bodyguards - Henderson and Mendelson at Chipper’s guess - and currently working his way through his full repertoire of Britney Spears. Getting him through the back door of the hotel and into an elevator unseen had been a miracle, one that Chipper doubted would hold for six more days. It was similarly lucky that the Plaza hotel had been completely bought out by the Clarksons, with no room set aside for Roland, or else Chipper would have needed to drag her employer’s drunk ass past all his family and business colleagues as well, rather than all of the similarly inebriated guests at the casino. 

Of course rooming at a casino brought in a host of other problems for the notoriously money-loose playboy, but to Chipper it was worth the expense to keep Roland from exploding at the blatant insult the Clarksons had given him. 

The Clarksons didn’t want Roland here. Caroline didn’t want Roland here. And frankly, _Summerfield_ didn’t want Roland here, lest he ruin any chance of Dark Forest buying out the company. And Chipper worked for _Summerfield_ first, Roland second, so it was her job to mitigate the damage as much as possible. 

Hard going indeed when Roland’s reaction to ‘ _no_ ’ was ‘ _I will now make this my mission_ ’. And despite being a lout, he was smarter than he looked and damn sneaky about getting his way; a fact which Chipper had underestimated until she found herself and the team in Monaco, not the Bahamas as she had arranged.

Roland was now drunkenly rambling about the reporter who had given him the slip earlier in the day. Chipper listened closely, hoping to hear lust in his voice. Things would be far easier if he found himself a new conquest, one that would distract him from the wedding. 

“Shi got away frum me. Bitch got away. Shi must be ah, ah, ah criminal. N’body gets away frum me!”

“I’m sure you will make her regret that.” Chipper said, hoping Roland would remember the idea as his own come morning.

“S’right! Make ‘er...make ‘er love me. An an an then _laugh_ at ‘er. Serve ‘er right. Maybe call up ‘er paper, get ‘er fired. Nobudy make Roland look like a fool!”

Chipper shared a look with Henderson. Loyal as they all were, it was hard to deny that the only one currently making Roland look like a fool was Roland himself.

The door to the elevator dinged open. Not to the penthouse - that was being rented out by some Arab oil baron, which was lucky because Roland really couldn’t afford it - and they hustled him towards his suit. The door was opened by the third bodyguard, Anderson, who closed it quickly behind them and allowed them all to breath a sigh of relief.

Their luck held, as Cherry was already there, oozing off the couch and catching Roland’s attention the instant that his eyes focused enough to notice her. His body reacted, even inebriated as he was, to the presence of a woman he found attractive. He stood straighter and his hand ran through his hair, admittedly after a few attempts to find the top of his head. His smile cleared and his eyes sparkled as Cherry moved forward, hips swinging and eyes sultry.

It was amazing, really. Roland would fall over the instant Henderson moved away, but for a moment he looked completely composed, roguishly disheveled and dashingly handsome. That was the effect women had on him. And usually women had the same reaction.

But Cherry was a professional, and she eased Roland away from Henderson with fluid grace, never for an instant making it appear as if she was now the one supporting him. He mumbled something dirty into her hair and she giggled appropriately, pulling him towards the bedroom where her job would be quite easy for the evening. Roland would be asleep before he hit the pillow and she would have the evening free.

The last thing Chipper heard before she made her exit was Roland drunkenly complaining once more about the reporter as Cherry readied him for bed.

“Mari. Bitch’s name was _Mari_.”

“Sweetheart, Marianne has been gone for years. You won, remember?”

“No. Not that Mari. A new Mari. A _bad_ Mari. I'm gonna _get_ 'er.”


End file.
